


The Iacon Prophecy: Sidequests

by ntldr



Series: The Iacon Prophecy Series [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Light Bondage, M/M, barbarian au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-07-14 21:03:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 44,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7190375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ntldr/pseuds/ntldr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barbarian AU.<br/>Taking place during the events of 'The Iacon Prophecy', a collection of stories from perspectives outside of Sideswipe's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Massage

**Author's Note:**

> _Readers, beware!_ The following stories MAY contain spoilers for 'The Iacon Prophecy,' if you are not caught up for the timeframe that these stories occur in!
> 
> All of these stories will be from perspectives outside of Sideswipe's, and couldn't be included in the main fic because the characters would be better storytellers than Sideswipe, and/or I came up with the idea too late to include it in the posted work, and/or they would drag down the main plot. I have two more stories queued up for this, and any more will be written as the ideas come to me.
> 
> This first one occurs after Chapter 4, sometime after Sideswipe's blindfold is removed for good.

Chapter 1: Massage

Blue optics watched Prowl suspiciously as he looped a rope around the red mech's waist and staked it to the ground, the cable not giving him enough slack to leave his sitting position on the mat. Sideswipe grimaced at the new restraint, growling and hissing his complaints in his own language, and Prowl raised an optic ridge.

He wasn't about to make fun of his new mate's babble-talk, but by Primus, it sure was strange.

He crouched behind Sideswipe and gripped his mate's white forearms, the taller mech stiffening in his hands, his fists balling up as he instinctively prepared to fight the mechs that he saw as captors. In front of both of them, the light behind Jazz's optics flashed up to Prowl warily, but he didn't back down from their plan.

“Ready?”

“Ready,” Prowl nodded, looking over his mate's shoulder to watch what Jazz was doing.

They'd already agreed not to use a knife to untie Sideswipe. The city-mech seemed frightened that the Autobots would attempt to do him harm, especially with a knife for some reason. Prowl had tried to explain his situation to him over and over, but the poor mech didn't understand Iaconian. Instead, Jazz carefully picked at the knots on the cables keeping Sideswipe's hands bound, his task slow but necessary to keep the mech from panicking. Sideswipe stared at him, his optics uncertain, his arms briefly pushing against Prowl's hands to see if he were actually being held, and then he grimaced when the white mech's firm hold didn't abate.

At last, the ropes fell away, and Jazz let them scatter to the ground, wanting them close by for when he was done. For the first time since they'd taken him, the red mech's hands were free, though he couldn't move with how he was being held. The three of them looked at Sideswipe's wrists, and Jazz hissed in empathetic pain while Sideswipe mumbled darkly.

He had struggled so much and so often, the cables had worn away the paint around his wrists until the outer armor was barely more than it's base gunmetal-silver. Some of the wiring and energon lines around his joints had split, and although the injuries were minor enough that he would only need to dedicate his self-repair units to the work for now, it was disturbing to see the coagulated energon sticking between his plating. And yet he had kept fighting anyway, even when he knew that he couldn't struggle free. 

Prowl wasn't sure if he should be awed or alarmed by this. If circumstances had been different, and a mech from another tribe had fought this hard when taken, he would have assumed that they had dire business to attend to before they could be taken as a mate, and would have let them go. 

Letting Prowl keep Sideswipe restrained, Jazz took the injured wrists into his hands, and began to gently knead them. Sideswipe immediately growled and flinched, the first touches hurting him, but Jazz kept at it, until he'd stimulated energon flow to return more normally to his hands, and along with it, self-repair units and electronic impulses that would dull the pain. Sideswipe tried to pull back only once, and Jazz grabbed his fingers while Prowl tightened his grip, and when the red mech stopped struggling, Jazz quietly returned to his task.

Eventually Sideswipe began to understand that the Autobots weren't trying to hurt him, and were in fact stimulating a healthy flow of energon to his hands. He stared at Jazz, and relaxed, his shoulders dropping against Prowl's bumper and his hands becoming heavier in Jazz's fingers as he let the smaller mech take the weight, which he didn't mind. He gazed forward, his jaw hanging open, awed by the what Jazz was doing to him. Granted, it had been a trick that the smaller mech had learned from another tribe, but it wasn't uncommon to accelerate repairs by way of a massage in the wildlands.

“I'll tell ya what, Prowl,” Jazz said, his optic band still on Sideswipe's abused wrists, “when ya finally pick a mate, ya sure pick 'em well.”

“Hmm.” Prowl let his own thumbs run across Sideswipe's forearm armor briefly, pretending that he was readjusting his grip. “It's not like I tracked him.”

“I'm serious. He's ain't that bad. One Pit of a fighter, loyal to those midget-friends of his, and he's handsome too.” Jazz's ever-present grin turned up a few degrees. “Ya'll could say _I_ claimed him. I wouldn't mind.”

“No. He's my responsibility.”

“Suit yourself.” The grin lessened slightly. “...Does he even know about the--?”

“I'm not sure. He shies away from it whenever I point it out to him.”

“Maybe he knows how the Decepticons interpreted it.”

“If he did, do you really think he would have been walking voluntarily to his death?”

“No. Definitely not.” Jazz smiled right into Sideswipe's face. “Not our _yoska._ The only reason he'd willingly approach Megatron would be to try to sucker-punch 'em.”

Sideswipe glowered at him, and complained loudly, not liking to be left out of the conversation. He had a habit now of impressing himself into any exchange as if he were a part of it, though he understood very little Iaconian. As it was, he babbled at Jazz, and then turned his head and continued at Prowl, expecting them to know what he was talking about. The white mech sighed, his doorwings drooping a little.

“He doesn't understand why we took him either, or else we wouldn't be having such a time trying to get him to cooperate.”

“He's a headstrong young city-mech,” Jazz shrugged. “He wouldn't be the first. You'll break 'em in eventually.”

“I don't intend to _break_ any part of him.” Prowl tightened his grip on his mate slightly, then relaxed when Sideswipe audibly protested. Jazz caught the motion and smirked.

“He'll learn.”

“And the prophecy?”

“...I hope ya get a translation program up and runnin' soon.”

“I'm working on it. It helps that he talks as much as Bluestreak.”

As if on cue, Sideswipe babbled at them again, his tone curious this time. Jazz laughed, and Sideswipe snapped his head to him with narrowed optics, thinking that he was being teased.

“I'd love to finally know what he's goin' on about.”

“The only thing I'm certain of is that those nicknames that he gave to you are swears in his language.”

“I figured.” Jazz finished massaging Sideswipe's wrists. “Cheeky mech. Well, hopefully ya'll learned that these ropes ain't gettin' any looser.”

He reached down and picked up the cables. Immediately Sideswipe shoved himself into Prowl, the mech's doorwings flaring briefly to catch his balance before he gripped the red mech and kept him sitting down, the second rope ensuring that he couldn't leap up and run away. Sideswipe was speaking faster, his optics on Jazz, his arms shaking as Prowl struggled to keep him still. Jazz merely tsked at him and tied the end of the rope into a loop.

“We ain't gonna hurt ya, mech. Cool your jets, will ya?”

The loop was easily brought around one of Sideswipe's wrists, and Jazz snatched another loop around the other hand before he could wriggle away. He pulled at the slack, forcing the red mech's hands to cross over one another, then kept weaving them, until Sideswipe was properly bound once again, his fingers unable to reach the knots. He grumbled at both of them, his speech hissing more often, but his shoulders slumped against Prowl, angry at his small defeat.

“...He's scared.”

“I would be too,” Jazz drawled. “He ain't really know any of us, doesn't know where he is or why he's here.”

“He knows why he's here.”

“He does?” The smaller mech raised an optic ridge. “What makes ya say that?”

“He wouldn't have been with the prophecy otherwise.”

“Unless he was tricked into givin' it, and himself, to Megatron.”

Prowl pressed his lips into a thin line. “That's a solid theory.” Now that the city-mech was properly restrained again, he let go of his arms, and encircled his own around the red mech's chest, the gesture more affectionate than suppressing, though Sideswipe only slumped down further grumpily. “But why him? Why this particular mech?”

“Dunno. Good looks?”

“Jazz...” Prowl groaned wearily.

“Hey, doncha pretend ya ain't thought the same. Anyway--”

Jazz grunted as he climbed to his feet, and his optic band flashed once at Prowl in a wink.

“I'm glad we found 'em. He'll be good for ya, once ya convince him that he's your mate.”

“Thank you again for helping him.”

“Anytime. Offers still open to let me take 'em off your hands.”

With that, Jazz headed off, intent on finding a rag to clean the coagulated energon off of his hands. Prowl remained where he was on the ground, hugging Sideswipe to his bumper, while the red mech curiously inspected his partly-repaired hands with a murmur. The city-mech was still amazed that a short massage could have helped him so much. To be honest, it still surprised Prowl too, even after Jazz had taught him a little about how to massage a potential mate.

'Potential' was sitting against his front, his shoulders moving up and down with each intake. Prowl bowed his head forward, his forehead tapping gently against the back of Sideswipe's black helm. The mech froze, but did not try to shake him off, allowing him to rest a little bit of his weight on him, while Prowl took most of Sideswipe's in return.

He vented a long sigh, considering how he'd ended up with him, and how he was going to convince the strong-willed mech that he was _his_ , and it was now his right to bond with his new mate. Even with a proper translation for his reasoning, Sideswipe would never go for that. He was simply too wild, too impulsive. He held no trust for any of the Autobots, not even Prowl.

This...this was going to be a challenge.

But that was the whole point of taking a mate, wasn't it? To challenge and prove himself by wooing someone who had never known him before. 

And besides, his battle computer liked challenges.


	2. Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occurs sometime before Chapter 7.

Chapter 2: Rain.

Doing his best to keep the ration can's noises to a minimum, Jazz poured one of the energon pellets into his hand, and slowed his footsteps until he could kneel down in front of the outcropping where a tiny creature was hiding. “Come on out. I won't hurt ya,” he cooed, offering pellet out in the center of his palm.

Behind him and still walking along, Sideswipe chittered something quietly, intrigued and tugging at rope restraining him to the wagon as he tried to see the turbo-fox that had been tailing them for the past quarter of a joor.

The creature wriggled it's tail nervously, wide green optics assessing Jazz before it stared hungrily at the offered food. The Autobot knelt down even lower, presenting himself as little of a danger to the turbo-fox as possible.

“Come on now. It's a'ight.”

Tiny paws moved silently on the ground as it crept closer, it's nose wiggling at the air. It kept low, it's plating pulled tight against it's frame. It's coloring was magnificent, and if they had been hunting, the Autobots would have taken its appearance as a sign of good fortune. Jazz's throat clicked, calling for it, his body frozen, trying not to appear as a great beast that could appreciate a beautiful creature as much as take it back to the tribe to be skinned.

The air shifted.

The turbo-fox lifted it's long audial sensors, then sprang up and fled, tearing across the field at top-speed, its tail swaying in its wake. Jazz's engine let out a disappointed rev, while Trailbreaker laughed and Sideswipe exclaimed, pointing at where the creature was disappearing and babbling even faster, his optics wide with delight.

“He acts like he's never seen a turbo-fox before,” Trailbreaker commented.

“Could very well be, my mech,” Jazz replied as he stood and returned to his place alongside the wagon. “They don't come near camps that much. Ya think they'd go where he lives?”

“Fair point.” The black mech glanced over his shoulder at Prowl's new mate, who was trying to speak to their leader. Prowl had turned his head to him, and was listening, though Trailbreaker knew that it was just to humor him; he didn't understand the mech's babbling any more than the rest of them did. Well, maybe slightly more. 

Hound lifted his face to the sky, his optics ponderous. “The wind's changing.”

“I feel it too,” Prowl said, his doorwings flaring as his panels sensed and calculated the drop in air pressure. “It's a squall. A short one.”

Jazz turned his optic band to where Hound was looking, and immediately noticed the dark clouds creeping over the horizon, their usual puffy tops rolling out as flat anvils. “Prowl, should we stop?”

The white mech shook his head. “Let's find someplace to ground the wagon first.”

“Good plan.”

They kept moving, every so often glancing at the approaching storm to check it's progress. Sideswipe noticed it too, and threw it and Prowl nervous looks. “Prowl?”

“ _Sa?_ ”

Sideswipe said something, and pointed at the clouds.

“Yes, I see them. We need to find a good spot for shelter first.”

It didn't take them long. Hound guided the Minotorons up the next hill, then slowed, and stomped his feet down as he tested it, satisfied that they'd found ground that wouldn't be overrun in case it flooded. As Trailbreaker chocked the wheels, Prowl and Jazz reached into the wagon, and pulled out a long piece of waterproofed hide for their temporary shelter. Hound found a smaller hide to wrap the prophecy in.

The wind was picking up quickly. The sky grew darker as the clouds raced in front of the sun, but none of the Autobots saw any particular formations that indicated that this would be a harsh, long storm. Just a quick squall, which was common during the warmer deca-cycles of the seasons. Trailbreaker unhurriedly pulled out their sleeping mats so that they wouldn't have to sit on the wet ground, while Prowl and Jazz built a small lean-to with the hide.

“Prowl?!”

Sideswipe was struggling at the tether, his wide optics on the foreboding sky. Trailbreaker glanced at him and then snorted.

“So they don't have storms in the cities either?”

“Maybe not like what we've got,” Jazz shrugged. 

Then the first raindrops began to fall. Sideswipe yelped, and pressed himself tight against the wagon, no longer fighting to get away as much as to hide behind it, then under it, but the tether's slack would not let him.

“Prowl!!” he screeched.

“What? What's wrong?” The white Autobot stopped what he was doing to study his panic-stricken mate. “It's not that bad of a storm--”

Jazz tightened down the hide and started wrapping strings around the pole to keep it from flying away. “Go see him, Prowl. I got this.”

Prowl nodded, then jogged over to where Sideswipe was cowering. The rain was starting in earnest now, droplets pouring down his white armor plating and off the edges of his doorwings as he knelt and put a hand on the poor city-mech, who was trembling and trying to yank himself free of his restraints. 

“Sideswipe, please. It's just a little rain--”

He was cut off as Sideswipe threw himself forward, and Jazz stiffened, thinking that he was trying to attack their leader. But the taller mech was leaning over Prowl, covering him, his optics squeezed shut, still trembling, as if expecting great pain.

“...Is he protecting you from the rain?” Jazz asked aloud, his optic ridges raised high on his face.

Prowl had obligingly knelt down as soon as Sideswipe covered him, an arm braced on his red chestplate to keep him from falling on top of him. “It...appears so,” he murmured, his face looking up at the shaking mech who had created his own lean-to over his mate with his body.

Trailbreaker and Hound ducked under their small shelter, the later with the prophecy in his hands. “He really does have a broken cortex!”

“He does _not_ have a broken cortex!” Prowl snapped, harsher than his usual tone. Slipping out from under the red mech, he grabbed his shoulders, and forced him to look at him. “Sideswipe. It's just _rain._ It can't harm you.”

Sideswipe still had his head ducked down, as if it hadn't been a small downpour, but a fierce maelstrom, one that would threaten to rip apart the wildlands and hurl them all to places unknown. He tried once more to cover himself over Prowl, but the mech pushed him off, then held him again.

“ _Na._ I appreciate your concern, but I am _fine._ ”

At last, the mech stopped trembling, and looked at his own armor plating. He seemed...shocked. His attention was lost from Prowl, instead looking over his arms, his shoulders, then down at his chestplate, none of them holding a grievous injury. He squawked, and double-checked himself.

“Cortex-broken,” Hound muttered again, then silenced his vocalizer at a glare from Trailbreaker. Jazz said nothing, the rain dripping down off of his helm as he watched his leader talking to his new mate.

“See? You're not harmed,” Prowl was saying. “The rain is natural here.”

Sideswipe mumbled something that sounded like an awed exclamation. His head swept to the left and right, huge blue optics staring at the wildlands around him and how the water droplets were bouncing off of the ground and outcroppings. He barely noticed when Prowl undid the tether from the wagon, the Autobot holding the loose end and waiting patiently until Sideswipe realized that he could walk with him to the shelter, their feet splashing through the puddles that had formed in the short time.

“Ya know,” Jazz called out as they approached. “I've hunted by a city a couple o' times, and I gotta say, their rain sometimes _hurts._ Like, really does damage my armor, and stains my clothes.”

“What kind of rain does that?!” Hound asked, his optics wide.

“Dunno. The air always smelled like rancid smoke when it did.”

Prowl and Sideswipe were steps away when Sideswipe suddenly halted and pulled at the tether. “ _Na,_ ” he said with a shake of his head, then looked straight up at the sky. His next sentence was quiet, and asking for something.

Prowl hesitated, but seemed to understand well enough. 

Leaving Sideswipe just outside of the shelter, exposed to the elements that he had feared less than a breem ago, he tied the loose end of the tether to a pole of the lean-to, then took a seat with his fellow Autobots on the mats, Jazz ducking inside with him. It was a cramped space for a brief respite, but at least it was dry. Sideswipe glanced over his shoulder at them, then sat down on the wet ground outside, and turned back to face the wildlands, his shoulder resting on the pole. He directed his face up at the cloud-filled sky, the raindrops bouncing off of his faceplates and optics.

He stayed out there, staring upwards, letting the rain wash over him, as if experiencing a downpour for the first time in his life. He could have tugged at the pole, and pulled down the lean-to easily to make life miserable for the Autobots, but he did no such thing. His bound hands rested in his lap, no longer fighting his restraints, and his shoulder rose and fell as he vented once, his sigh relaxing and _peaceful,_ his optics wondering. The rain washed his red plating, cleaning away the dirt that had built up over the past few orns of marching.

“...He's quite a sight,” Jazz whispered into Prowl's audial. 

The white mech stared in awe at his spellbound mate, and nodded slowly in agreement.


	3. Healer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place immediately after Chapter 13.

Chapter 3: Healer

Trailbreaker lifted his head as the noises from the common area peaked. Immediately a red hand grasped his forehead, and shoved him back down onto the mat, his HUD throwing up error messages as his helm bounced.

“Sit still, fraggit!”

“Something's happening out there.”

The healer returned his attention to the wound on the black mech's torso. “Probably has something to do with your new friend.” 

The sleeves of his white and red robe were rolled up, and for as long as Trailbreaker had known Ratchet, it seemed that they were consistently pushed out of the way for the entirety of the orn that he had for a shift in the healers' tent. Tracks had once suggested making him new robes with short sleeves, but Ratchet had scoffed at the idea; healers traditionally wore modestly long robes to show their compassionate difference to mechs that carried weapons. Tracks then pointed out that Ratchet could be just as violent as any of them, and received bottle of salve to his face for the insult.

The healer grimaced as he picked the last of the sticky residue away from the black mech's armor plating. “What did he call this again?”

“Flexi-Plex. It worked better than a bandage on my pump.”

“And if it's anything like this, it's going to be like walking through the Pit to try to get it off,” Ratchet grimaced in disgust, but Trailbreaker noted that he was carefully keeping all the Flexi-plex in a small bowl to be used again later. “So is he--?”

“Yeah. But Ratchet, he saved my life. He's not evil.”

“I'll be the judge of that.”

He worked in relative peace for a little while, fixing the emergency soldering that Hound had done on Trailbreaker's circuitry, then moving on to repair the torn energon lines, purposely re-routing many of them so that the load on the mech's pump would be lightened while it healed. Trailbreaker watched this all on his HUD, and while the re-routing would mean that he wouldn't be able to leave the healers' tent for several more orns, he assured himself that it would also mean that he could recover properly and be just as strong as before. In the meantime, he got to relax on his back for a while, which was a nice break after the long walk back to the tribe.

After a few more breems, the noise died down, and they heard feet moving towards the entrance of the tent. Ratchet didn't bother to lift his head until the flap was lifted away, and Prowl announced himself.

“Ratchet, can you see to my mate when you have a moment?”

“When I have a moment,” the healer repeated, though he did flick his optics to look at the red mech stumbling along with him. “So, that's Sideswipe. I don't like him.”

Prowl led the red mech over to one of the mats arranged in a grid throughout the tent, and gestured for him to sit down and wait. “You don't know him yet.”

“Don't need to. I've got a sense for who I like and who I don't.”

“Aw, give him a chance to get under your plating first.” Trailbreaker raised a friendly hand before it was shoved back down by Ratchet. “Hello, Sideswipe.”

Seeing him, Sideswipe grinned and answered him, looking sincerely pleased that the mech was doing better under a healer's care. He looked different than when Trailbreaker had last seen him; he was covered in dents, scratches and tears, and his legs were caked with fresh dirt. Energon dribbled from the side of his mouth, and he swallowed it down every so often. Yet despite his mate's injures, Prowl carried an air of pride, and Trailbreaker wondered what on Cybertron had happened while he was stuck inside the tent.

The city-mech took a tone of awe as he looked around, his optics falling on the table standing at one side of the tent, holding various tools, potions, salves and bandages. Prowl, who had taken a knee next to him, put a comforting hand on his shoulder and looked over at Trailbreaker.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better. That Flexi-Plex is some good slag. Ratch is going to leave it on over my pump until it he's done fixing it.”

Ratchet huffed. “You were lucky that fragger had it on hand.”

“Yeah. You know what, Ratch? You should go over there and thank him for saving me.”

“For giving me one more mech to worry over?” Still, Ratchet finished up what he was doing, and sat up as he closed Trailbreaker's chestplate. “Recharge while your repair units are working.”

“Gotcha, Doc.”

“Don't call me 'Doc,'” he grumbled, then moved over to Sideswipe's mat. Trailerbreaker let his systems slow, but was too curious to recharge just yet, and turned his head to watch the healer work on Sideswipe. The taller red mech was staring him up and down, then attempted a wary, friendly greeting. Ratchet frowned.

“Ratchet,” he named himself, patting the front of his robes.

“...Ratchet!” Sideswipe exclaimed brightly, as if the world suddenly made sense, his head swiveling back and forth between Prowl and Trailbreaker. The healer's frown deepened.

“Listen, scraplet. I don't like you, and if you're smart, you'll stay quiet and still until I'm done, and then get the frell out of my tent. Compute?”

Prowl sighed. “He doesn't speak our language yet.” As if to affirm this, Sideswipe chittered at his mate questioningly, then at Ratchet, his own language harsher than Iaconian and using more growls and hisses. 

Ratchet scowled. His red hand shot out, crashing into Sideswipe's chestplate, and the mech went down onto his back with a surprised yelp. He stayed there, shocked, while the healer got to work inspecting multiple tears in his armor.

“I think I've made myself clear.”

Sideswipe complained loudly, then winced as the same hand smacked him upside the helm.

“Alright, _now_ I've made myself clear.”

A whined yowl of protest was sent in Prowl's direction. The red mech's optics bulged when his mate did nothing but grimace in return, and then he yelped again at the medic's third hit.

“Want to go for four?!”

Sideswipe shook his head vigorously, clearly understanding the threat now. Ratchet vented, then leaned over him, a cloth in his hands to first clean the debris out of the tears before they could be fixed. Trailbreaker chuckled at them.

“ _Now_ you can dislike him.”

“Oh, I do.” 

Despite his beside manner, Ratchet was an expert at his craft, and as one hand cleaned a wound, the other held a small tool that welded the plating back together. The hot pinpoint, powered by a tiny crystal, moved smoothly over the tears, and Sideswipe's optics turned down to watch with a bemused and awed expression. 

Ratchet's engine growled suddenly. “This is Optimus's handywork. Sideswipe wouldn't have been hurt like this if he didn't pick a fight. I'd bet that Prime will be waddling himself down here shortly too, if you all keep claiming that he's a _yoska_ now.”

“He fought Prime?!”

Prowl nodded to Trailbreaker. “I told him that he had the prophecy in his wagon when we found him. Optimus...reacted poorly.”

“To say the least,” the black mech rumbled as he looked over Sideswipe's injuries. “Hound was ready to kill him before. Prime must have been holding back from ripping his fragging head off. But is everything alright now?”

“It's better than it was. I'll need to call in a few favors before he's truly accepted into the tribe.”

“It'll help when you two are--”

“And before you do _that_ ,” Ratchet interrupted, “I need to look at that doorwing. Don't think I haven't noticed that you're having trouble moving it.”

Prowl held his panels back defensively. “It was knocked out of joint in a skirmish. Sideswipe put it back in place.”

“Oh, so now this new _yoska_ is a better healer than me?!”

Sideswipe grinned wickedly, and chittered up at him, knowing he was being talked about. Ratchet hissed and flicked the side of his helm.

“Don't get snippy with me, you little glitch.”

“You don't know what he said!”

“Oh, I do. I tell you, I don't like him.”

Trailbreaker leaned up on his elbow as he watched the red mech try again to talk to Ratchet, this time using a ridiculously-sweet voice. He was flicked again, harder. “He seems to like _you._ ”

“Prowl, get a translation program running, so I can properly diagnose him as cortex-disabled.”

“He is _not_ cortex-disabled,” the white mech muttered, even as his mate growled “Bar-bar-bar” at the healer, immediately bracing himself and grinning as he earned a new dent in his helm.


	4. Scientist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not 100% yet, but I'm feeling much better now! Thanks guys! <3

Chapter 4: Scientist

The next hit to the neutron shield threw the generator into a fit, and Wheeljack tried to lean out from the city mechs' hiding spot to take a look at the damage, only to be forced back down as sparks blew out of the machine. He swore, then crouched with the two other scientists taking cover behind the malfunctioning shield generator.

“Well mechs...I think this is it,” he muttered.

On Perceptor's other side, Beachcomber gritted his dentals and slumped against the side of the machine. “This is _so_ not fair.”

Perceptor grimly nodded his head in agreement, then all three of them winced as the half-dome shield bathing them in a blue light wavered. The nomad barbarians on the other side screamed in delight, and continued bashing their weapons at the shield, looking for the weak spot that one of them had been lucky enough to hit. There was little that the city-mechs could do but huddle together at the center and hope that the damaged generator could hold, which seemed more unlikely with every passing nano-second.

It had been such a promising jaunt too, Perceptor thought remorsefully. The Tarnish scientists had been trying to determine why the meteorological stations they'd set up in various areas of the wildlands weren't reporting in to the main hub. They had just reached the night of the fifth orn of their mission when the barbarians had seemed to melt out of the hills around them and attacked the camp. They hadn't even gotten a good look at them, other than that they were clawed, winged, _Seekers_ , and barreling at them. Wheeljack, Perceptor and Beachcomber had been wise enough to hire a few bodyguards before their adventure had started, but it seemed that their judgment of who would make a good defender was subpar. As soon as the barbarians had appeared, the mercenaries had taken off, shouting that they weren't being paid enough for actual combat. The three scientists had hurriedly thrown up a shield around the camp and themselves, and now here they were, waiting for the end as the shield began to fail.

They weren't even being attacked by a local tribe, for Primus's sake! If they had been, Perceptor would have tried to use what little knowledge he had of wildland languages to talk them down, but these mechs seemed intent on storming and razing the small camp. The tribes closest to Tarn were small knots of thieves and bandits, but would run away whenever weapons were presented. This particular group of Seekers did not let up on their attacks on the shield after an entire _joor._ He had the inclination that they were looking for something, but he had no doubt that once they broke in, they would take the scientists as prisoners, if not kill them outright.

“Gentlemechs, its been an honor working with you,” Perceptor called above the noise of the sputtering generator.

Wheeljack leaned in closer to his side, as did Beachcomber. “I think we did some good while we were out here,” the bigger scientist said, his vocal indicators flashing like beacons in the dim twilight. “Maybe somebody else will get the stations online later.”

“It was nice to get out of the city,” Beachcomber agreed. “Frell, it was nice to get out of the energon mines at all.”

“I'm glad that Tarn let you out of there to come with us.”

“Me too, mech,” the minibot nodded. “Me too.”

“Looks like we won't have to worry about the upcoming war between the cities after all,” Perceptor added with fake cheer.

The three of them huddled together, their optics squeezed shut, waiting for that last hit and the whine from the shield that would indicate that it had fallen, and that they were about to be left to the violent tribe's mercies. Knowing that they were nearly done breaking through, the Seekers shrieked in triumph, and Perceptor shivered, horrified to think of what would become of the scientists once they were in their claws.

Wheeljack suddenly brought his head up. “What...?!”

Perceptor turned his face up to look at him, and then a new sound registered in his audials.

There were more shouts further off. 

It sounded like screams.

No.

_Howls._

The wildland mechs suddenly broke off their attack. Someone new was joining the battle, several someones, and attacking them from the rear. Weapons clashed together, someone shrieked in pain, and war cries erupted across the field. The blue neutron shield wavered once more, then went still, able to restore itself now that the bombardment had ended, though the sounds of battle were just as loud.

The three scientists refreshed their optics at one another. Then, hesitantly, all of them turned and raised themselves up just enough to peek over the top of the generator.

With all the noise that they'd been making, the city-mechs had thought that an entire tribe had been attacking them. But they could make out in the dim starlight that it had been only four mechs, four _dangerous_ , armed mechs, but nowhere near as terrifying as they'd anticipated. They had turned, and were fighting off two more nomads, clearly from a different tribe, who howled and sneered at their opponents as they drove them away from the scientists' camp. 

The first one was almost completely red, tall, thick, and heavily armored, a club in one hand, though he seemed to be using his spare fist just fine as well, driving it into one mech's face and then following up with the club's bash to his knees, sending him flying. The other--

_Primus Almighty._

The swords-mech moved with a dancer's grace, flitting back and forth between the two other nomads trying to keep him pinned. The white mech growled at them, then took to the offense against one, swords flying as if in a whirlwind, slicing any piece of the Seeker's armor that was exposed. The other tried to come up behind him, but the white mech turned on his toes, quickly changing direction, and parried away the claw coming at him before pressing in and slicing down at his thigh. Energon splurted out from the wound, and the nomad screamed in pain.

“My goodness,” Perceptor breathed.

An order was barked from the leader of the four barbarian mechs. Realizing that their prey would not be easy to capture any longer, they turned and ran for the hills. The other two nomads chased them a short distance, shouting and daring them to continue to fight. When they'd disappeared and it was clear that they would not return, the duo stopped, their shoulders moving up and down as they ventilated heavily, and then they turned their glowing optics back on the camp, staring directly at where the city-mechs were hiding.

All three of the scientists wilted behind the generator. 

“Oh frag, here we go again...” Beachcomber moaned.

But the two mechs didn't seem interested in attacking. They paused, taking in the half-dome shield still cast over the camp, before one murmured at the other, and then they walked closer, their weapons still out and at the ready. The red one cocked his head to the side, then grunted at his companion, pointing his club at the shield, to which the white one shrugged, unsure of what it was either. 

“I think...I think that one's the leader.” Perceptor pointed to the red mech. “See how he has a stripe of cloth over his chest? One of the tribes nearby does that to indicate some sort of a status.”

“There's only two of them.” Wheeljack stayed partially hidden behind the generator, as did the other Tarnish scientists. “What're they, some sort of patrol or something?”

“Possibly. We are near a tribe's territory.”

“But not _their_ territory. They aren't part of the local bands around Tarn. What are they doing out here?”

Beachcomber spoke up. “Maybe they're looking for something, or someone, like that other group was.”

The two nomads stepped up to edge of the hazy blue shield. Warily, the red one put a palm on the glowing surface, then hissed at the discharge that tried to repel him. He didn't try it again. Instead, he raised his voice, and called out to the generator.

“He's...asking us question?” Wheeljack turned to his friend. “Perceptor?”

Perceptor nodded, his processor already frantically trying to find the translation program that he'd been cobbling together in his spare time. It was woefully incomplete, but he let it run anyway. Some translation would be better than none. He just hoped he had the right tribe's language in his files.

The red mech repeated himself as the program came online.

_“You hurt?”_ the software translated for him, only able to give him the barest of the nomads' base language. 'Iaconian,' his HUD called it.

“...He's asking if we are alright,” Perceptor said under his breath, then called out, letting the program reform the words before he said them. _“Not hurt. Scared. You friends?”_

The red and white mechs glanced at each other in surprise. The scientist at first thought that the poor communication hadn't been enough, or that the nomads would be ill at ease at a city-mech who could speak bits of their language, but his spark then eased in relief as both of them put their weapons away in a show of goodwill, the red one's club into subspace, the white one's swords into the sheaths on his hips.

_“Friends,”_ the red one announced, and showed his empty palms at his sides.

“They're friendly.” He turned back to Wheeljack. “Would you kindly drop the shield for them?”

“What?!” His optics bulged above his face mask. “After all that?! Percy, for all we know, they were fighting off the others to claim us for themselves--”

“I don't think so.” Perceptor gestured with one hand to the mechs. “The language they're speaking is Iaconian. They're part of the Autobot tribe. Granted, I don't have much in my database on them, but they're certainly not with the brutes that were trying to attack us, nor are they being territorial if we are nowhere near their main camp. They're just...they have no intention to harm us.”

Beachcomber stared at the hilts of the white one's swords. “Don't look that friendly to me.”

“Wheeljack, please? We've got nothing to lose. If we stay here and do nothing, they'll leave, and those other brutes might come back. And if I'm wrong, well...”

“Then we were no worse than we were before. Beachcomber?”

The minibot relented with a huff. “...Go ahead. It's not like our mercenaries are coming back anytime soon.”

Wheeljack reached for the generator's controls, but not without a final grumble.

A breem later, the shield hummed, then powered down, the neutrons scattering and dissipating, the blue light disappearing, casting everything back into darkness until the camp's automated lanterns came back online. The two nomads startled at this, froze, then waited until the three scientists had stood up from their hiding place. Perceptor was the first to approach them, jogging over, his optics warily glancing at the white one's sheathed swords before speaking to both of them with the hopefully-not-too-broken translation program.

_“Me thank you.”_

The white one bobbed his head in acknowledgment, though with a small smirk. 

_“You speak funny,”_ the program translated.

Perceptor balked. “Well it's not...You see, I've been trying to create something so that our two cultures can communicate effectively, but it's difficult to do when I cannot actually walk up and speak to one of you--”

“Percy.” Wheeljack tapped one of his vocal indicators. “You're speaking Standard.”

“Oh. Right.” He thought of what he could say with the program's limited vocabulary, then cleared his vocalizer before patting his chest lightly. _“Me, Perceptor.”_

_“Me, Drift._ ” He jabbed a thumb at his companion. _“Him, Ironhide.”_

“Drift and Ironhide.” Perceptor turned back to his friends, his optics bright. “Their names are Drift and Ironhide!”

“Yeah, we got that,” Beachcomber chuckled as he stepped up to join him at his side, Wheeljack walking up too. 

Both nomads stiffened a little, but then eased, realizing that even though there was one more mech than they had, Beachcomber was too small to be much of a threat, and all three of them were unarmed. Ironhide spoke first as he crossed his massive arms in front of him.

_“Where_ yoska? _You too small and weak.”_

“Well, then!” Perceptor buried his initial indignant response, though not without a stammer of words that he refused to let travel far from his vocalizer. _“Ran away. We leave soon too.”_

Ironhide muttered to Drift, who lifted both of his eye ridges as he took in the three scientists and their camp. He hesitated, then pointed to himself and the other Autobot.

_“We stay? Decepticons, maybe come back.”_

“...He's asking to stay and protect us,” Perceptor told his friends. “The other nomad tribe, the Decepticons, are still around here.”

Wheeljack looked the nomads over. “...Should we?”

“I don't see why not,” Beachcomber shrugged with a small smile. “We're going to need some help to get through the night. And as long as they're cool with us, I'm cool with them.”

“...Well, if we are cutting this trip short anyway, then we've got energon to spare for guests.”

Perceptor turned back to Drift and nodded his head several times. “ _Please. Stay._ ”

Drift rumbled an affirmative “ _Sa,_ ” and after a moment, so did Ironhide, though a bit more begrudgingly. The red mech then stepped back, and Perceptor wondered if he was leaving, until he realized that the nomad was doing a circuit around the camp, making sure that there were no areas where the Decepticons could creep up on them. He was checking an outcropping of crystals, shaking it and looking behind it, and at one point he hissed and shooed away a particuarly brave turbo-fox that had been trying to get closer to the fuel stores.

Drift, meanwhile, followed the scientists further towards the center of the camp. As they walked, Perceptor took his arm imploringly.

“ _You Drift, want energon? We have plenty._ ”

The white mech smiled down at him, and patted his hand. “ _Sa._ ”


	5. Hero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place directly after Chapter 18, right after Prowl and Sideswipe leave the meeting with Optimus.

Chapter 5: Hero

Hot Rod puzzled over the word that he'd been given before the answer popped into his cortex, and he used a stick to draw the symbol he was imagining into the dirt shavings on the ground. “Like...this?”

The tall blue-and-white femme next to him put her hands on her knees as she leaned over to inspect the orange youngling's work. “...Better. You need to memorize all of the alphabetic characters by the next deca-orn, _sa?_ ”

 _“Sa,_ Chromia,” Hot Rod agreed with a nod, looking over the other symbols that he'd drawn previously. “I'll do my best.”

“Well then.” She straightened up and clapped her hands once with a grin. “That's the end of today's lesson. Go play.”

“Thank you!”

The stick went flying, thankfully not at his teacher, as the youngling scrambled around on the ground and took off back into the camp. He could hear Chromia making a _tsk_ noise with her throat at his impertinence, but he didn't care. Instead he embraced his freedom for the day, and whooped to himself as he sprinted into the outer tentline and emerged in one of the throughways.

He was small enough that he could dodge and weave between the adult mechs, sometimes through the legs of the biggest ones, though not without loud complaints, especially from Tracks when he brushed up against his paintjob. He ignored them, though, and swept his light blue optics back and forth. After an orn's lesson he'd usually he'd be looking for a playmate, or something he could use as a toy, or Optimus, but today he searched for one mech in particular, who'd he'd seen coming back from patrols the night before. 

After a few breems, he found him speaking to Prowl and his red mate, and shouted as he skirted around Firestar and Hound, the later who playfully tried to catch him. The younger mech was wise enough to know how to duck underneath arms by now, and he quickly escaped him.

“Springer!”

The green _yoska_ turned his head around when he heard his name, and smiled at the oncoming youngling, a hand going out and rubbing and mussing the top of his helm when he was close enough. “Hot Rod! It's been a while, you little mad-mech.”

“I missed you!” Hot Rod reached up to grab the hand and squeeze it as he leaned on the bigger mech's leg. “Where have you--?”

“Give me just a breem, kid.” He turned back to Prowl. “One more time?”

The white mech gave Hot Rod a disapproving stare, but then continued what he'd been saying in a cooled tone. “Bright yellow. Tall, servoed, and has about the same structure as his twin.”

He gestured beside him to his new mate, Sideswipe. Hot Rod had seen him once before, and when he'd come back from his chores with the Minotorons that same day, he'd heard about his fight with Optimus Prime. Right now, though, the red mech looked troubled, and quieter, his arms crossed in front of him, though he was firmly paying attention to the description that Prowl was giving to Springer. 

“'Twin?'” Springer cocked his head to the side.

“His brother. A split-spark.”

“...I see.” The green mech's optic ridges raised high. “So that's why there's been so much Decepticon movement. Do they know that he's here?”

“Hopefully not. Starscream attacked us on the way home, but the Seekers didn't see him, nor the prophecy.”

Both green hands pressed on Hot Rod's audials briefly, as if trying to deafen him for a moment. The youngling narrowed his optics and raised the grade on his audial sensors, even though everything was still muffled.

“They'll get more desperate if they don't find him soon,” Springer was saying, his voice lowered.

Prowl nodded. “And if Sideswipe is correct, and his twin is out in the wildlands searching for him, their attention will turn on him next.”

“Then I'll have to find him first.” He rolled his shoulders, and cleared his vocalizer, the fingers lifting from the youngling's sensors to instead pat his helm again. “So, looks like our Sideswipe here, except he's yellow.” He nodded to the city-mech. “Got it.”

Sideswipe babbled something, his voice hissing and clicking in the strange way that reminded Hot Rod of an angry turbo-fox, though there wasn't any ire in his voice. His black hands raised up to either side of his helm, his fingers pointed up, as if he were mimicking a pair of Minotoron horns.

“...And he has head fins,” Prowl clarified. 

Springer grinned, then used his free hand to imitate a 'horn'. “So I'm looking for a golden Minotoron.”

Prowl translated something to Sideswipe in the same growling language, and he smirked back at Springer with a short, barked laugh, and a nod, his stance relaxing a little. 

“I'll find him.” The green mech patted the red one's shoulder in a show of commradeship. “You'll be causing all sorts of trouble in camp with your 'twin' before you know it.”

Hot Rod glanced at the three older mechs, then kept his focus on Springer. “You're leaving again already?!”

“ 'Fraid so.” Springer nodded his head towards Prowl. “His mate's brother doesn't know the way to our camp. I'm going to go find him.”

The youngling pulled at his arm. “But you just got here!”

“And I'll come right back with, if I understand Prowl right, just as much trouble as Sideswipe here.” 

He gestured with his head to the red mech. At that, Sideswipe turned his gaze to the orange youngling, and winked one optic at him, the light behind the glass flashing on and off. Still, Hot Rod pouted irritably, and tugged at Springer's arm again, harder this time.

“I've been getting better with my bow, and you haven't seen it yet!”

“I will when I come back, _sa?_ ”

“ _Na!_ ”

“Aw, c'mon kid...”

Sideswipe spoke again, and pointed to himself, then to Springer. He looked at Prowl expectantly, but when the white mech shook his head, his face fell, and then he scowled at him before speaking again, this time in a lower, hissing voice. Prowl retorted, then so did Sideswipe.

“Now what's wrong?” Springer grimaced, shaking his hand free from Hot Rod.

“He wants to come with you,” Prowl said. 

“ _Na._ ” The green mech shook his head at Sideswipe too. “Too many Decepticons looking specifically for you. I can handle myself and slip by. You'd just wander in circles until you get caught.”

Prowl translated, and his red mate venomously disagreed. A protest was snarled at him, making Hot Rod jump and Springer's hand to suddenly clasp his shoulder again protectively, and then he was even more surprised when the normally level-headed mech snapped back at his mate, his patience finally reached. Sideswipe did not react well to that, his voice growing even louder, then worse when Prowl's answer was to huff and walk away, determined that he'd already gotten the last word and that the discussion was over, but Sideswipe was right on his heels, still barking and waving his hands around as he tried to argue with him.

“...Quite a couple, aren't they?” Springer said to Hot Rod with a raised optic brow. “Prowl always wanted a challenge, but--”

“I want to come with you!”

He groaned. “ _Na._ Sorry, bitlet.”

“I'm big enough!” Hot Rod stood back and threw up his hands to show off his servos, which, to his credit, had gotten thicker and stronger over the past vorn. “Ironhide even said that I'm way stronger than any other youngling my age! I can handle a knife, and I can handle a bow...C'mon, Springer, please?!”

“Kid, if this were a regular patrol, _maybe._ But I'm looking for someone who's lost in Decepticon territory. I may be gone a long time, and right in the thick of the enemy.”

“Then you'll need a second pair of optics! Some back-up!”

“Some _experienced_ back-up.”

“Someone who can stay out of sight?”

“ _Sa_ , someone who can--”

He paused. Hot Rod, who stood no taller than his elbows and could easily hide behind a crystal outcropping, had his fists on his hips and was grinning up at him.

“...You really are something.” He sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Go talk to Optimus. Maybe he can convince you to--”

“YES!!”

He startled Springer by punching his fist in the air, and then spun around and dashed for the camp's center gleefully, ignoring the muttered swears by the green _yoska_ as he realized his mistake.

If anybody could butter up Optimus into letting him out on a patrol, the orange youngling certainly could.


	6. Glue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during Chapter 22, in the orns after Sideswipe successfully installs the translation program.

Chapter 6: Glue

Ratchet's blue optics were narrowed and snapping up and down as he leaned down and assessed his patient's frame. “Explain,” he growled to the mech sitting a the mat in the infirmary tent.

“It wasn't really my fault! I didn't see it coming, and--”

“ _Explain._ ”

“I must have made it mad, because it started swishing its tail back and forth, you know, the way they do when they're trying to brush off something behind them? It was staring right at me, and I was frozen, just absolutely frozen, and I didn't know what to do, because it's always been Hound whose been better at a lasso, not me! I'm really good at not making them mad in the first place, I think! Or maybe they were mad because Hot Rod's not here to help me? Yeah, I bet that's it. They really do like younglings, or, uh, sometimes they do. When they're stampeding, they really don't care--”

“Explain in _less words._ ”

Bluestreak opened his mouth again, but then was cut off by a warning rev from the healer's engine. One of his doorwings drooped. The other was held stiffly by several layers of cloth to keep it from bouncing around. “The bull got aggravated and charged at me. I ducked, but not before its horn got my doorwing.”

“Better.” Ratchet grunted as he circled around him and inspected the fast and sloppy dressing that Optimus had wrapped around the injured mech's appendage when he'd come scrambling back into the camp and barreled right into the unsuspecting Prime. “What have you been told about working alone with the Minotorons, Bluestreak?”

“Don't. Always go with a buddy, just in case you get hurt. Or in case somebody wants to attack the herd, or attack _you_ , or--”

The healer ignored the younger mech's babbling as he pulled back the cloth and peered at the wound. “...It's not too bad. The front panel's detached from the back. I've got just the thing for that.”

Heading back to his workbench, he looked for the bowl of Flexi-plex that he'd pulled off of Trailbreaker once the mech had healed from Starscream's attack. Despite his misgivings about Sideswipe, the mech had indeed saved the black mech's life with the mixture that he'd carried with him. This goo, this 'Flexi-plex' as he called it had been reused several times, and Ratchet was coming to appreciate it. Somehow he'd have to figure out how to make more of it. Maybe Perceptor could show him how.

He put a hand on the bowl--

And found it to be much lighter than before. He refreshed his optics as he peered into the empty bowl.

“...I don't remember using this up. Huh.”

Well, it hadn't been an infinite amount to use anyway. Any adhesive, no matter how useful, would eventually lose its strength. Another healer must have found it weakening and chucked it. Yet he was still a little sad that such a useful tool had been taken away.

He instead retrieved his crystal-powered welder and more dressing, and headed back to Bluestreak, who was _still_ talking.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“It was just fine this mornin'!”

Ratchet growled as he swatted one of the only mechs in camp who was older than he was and still active. “Fine or not, that's no excuse for you to put so much weight on the joint!”

Ironhide winced, and looked like he wanted to return the favor to the healer, but both of his hands were instead gripped around his sparking knee-joint. “Aww, Ratch, they're just young'uns! They ain't so big, an' they really wanted to see how many of them I could hold!”

“And you could have easily told them 'no' before your joint blew out!”

“I thought I was fine!” the red mech insisted.

Ratchet snorted, and snatched up his welder on the table. Or at least, he tried to.

His fingers partially went around the handle. But the welder didn't budge, and the servos in his arm squealed as they were pulled taunt. Ratchet stumbled to a halt, and looked back at his tool.

“What the...?”

He pulled at it a little harder. But it again refused to come with him, instead stubbornly clinging to the table with exactly _no_ handgrips.

“Ratch...?”

“It's...gah!...It's stuck!”

Grasping it, he braced himself and pulled hard at the tool. The table squeaked along the ground, the legs dragging through the dirt and all the objects piled high on it rattling, but the welder still refused to budge.

It was then that Ratchet notice a little bit of whitish-yellow substance underneath its handle.

“Here, Ratch.” Limping footsteps came up behind him. “I got it.”

“Wait, Ironhide, don't don't DON'T--!!”

But the red mech had already grasped the welder, and pulled with all of his might. The table came off the ground before the welder could remove itself from the table. 

Both mechs suddenly found themselves under a shower of tools, dressing, spare parts, and one large table.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He didn't get much of a chance to recharge normally. If he wasn't taking care of a constant stream of nomads, then he was sitting in the healers' tent and worrying about the rest of the tribe. Prowl had warned him several times that he aught to have one of the other healers look at him, or at least let them take over his shift for a while. But Ratchet was the Master Healer. He couldn't allow himself to rest, not when so many sparks depended on him.

And then one day a city-mech named Perceptor had joined the tribe, and had worked with him for only a few orns before going into such a long tirade about how the well-being of the healers would benefit the patients under their care, or some slag like that, that Ratchet had retreated to his own tent for a while to escape his ranting and get some peace, allowing himself to trust that the new mech wouldn't light the tent on fire or something in his absence.

Pit, he didn't have to worry about _that_ one so much. Perceptor was knowledgeable, and professional, if not also overly talkative and curious. He would be fine, he reminded himself. It was the _other_ city-mech that was likely to do dumb slag.

As he woke from recharge with a certain red _yoska_ on his cortex, Ratchet groaned and put a hand on his forehead to try to massage away a growing helm-ache that had crept up on him in his sleep, and he blamed that on Sideswipe as well. He sat up, and started to reach for the robes folded to one side of his mat.

His hand stayed where it was on his chevron, despite his attempts to do something else with it.

“...The slag?”

He pulled, but his palm and fingers stuck. He grimaced, tried again, and winced. Warnings of imminent damage to his faceplates from trying to force his hand away lit up on his HUD.

His nose picked up something odd, too. 

Some kind of adhesive.

Something that the tribe hadn't had until--

He swore that he could feel steam building under his plating.

“...I'm going to reformat him...”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Prowl kept his arms crossed over his bumper as he swiveled his head back and forth, his optics searching for his mate among the other nomads meandering around the Commons. Weaponry practice had ended some time ago, and he expected to find Sideswipe wandering around the camp afterwards, but he'd done a complete circuit around the tent line, and had found no trace of the red mech. He'd checked with several of the other _yoska_ , but none of them had any idea where he might have gone. 

Worry began to creep up and cling at his spark. Would he have run away? Sideswipe knew better than that now, or Prowl assumed that he did. Was he purposely hiding? Why? Or maybe the white mech was completely overreacting. Sideswipe had probably ducked into someone's tent for a breem. He should have more faith in his mate--

“Hey, Prowl.”

He stuttered to a halt in front of the open flap to the healers' tent. His optics narrowed as he peered inside the dark space, and a pair of glowing blue optics stared back out at him.

...Scratch that. He should have no faith in his mate. Ever.

“What are you doing?” he asked wearily as he approached Sideswipe, who appeared to be _levitating_ in the middle of the tent, upside-down. His optics flashed up and down, looking for a rope or wire that could be stringing up the red mech, but found nothing. Yet Sideswipe remained suspended in mid-air, his hands hanging towards the floor, his legs awkwardly sprawled out, and although he looked ridiculous, Sideswipe didn't seem to be trying to struggle his way out and get his feet back on the ground.

“I, uh...I made Ratchet mad,” he grinned. 

Prowl refreshed his optics, then squatted down until both of their blue optics were on the same level. “How mad?”

“A 'Glue A Certain Slagger's Aft Upside-Down To The Center Pole' level of mad. It was really something. I didn't think a mech's face could change colors like that.”

“...Do I really want to know?”

“Nope.”

“Hmm.”

A quick look around the tent revealed only Perceptor, who happily (but warily) waved to the other mech before returning to his patient. Ratchet was nowhere in sight, likely with Prime and complaining about how the city-mech needed to be kept in line. Primus knew that several mechs had relayed the problem to Sideswipe's mate, as if he were responsible for his antics.

“Whatever it was, did you deserve it?”

“Probably.”

“Will you do it again?”

“No.” He smirked at Prowl. “Only because the Flexi-Plex is getting worn down. Ratchet found the last of the batch in my subspace pocket and used it on me.”

“I'll be making some more,” Perceptor called out. “The tribe is finding more uses for it than just a medical adhesive. But Ratchet wants a solvent first. In case, ah...in case it's used inappropriately again.”

“I see.”

Lowering himself further down to one knee, Prowl put a hand on Sideswipe's cheek to steady him, leaned forward, and kissed his lips gently, not minding how his mate was hanging upside-down by his aft. Sideswipe made a surprised noise, but returned the gesture, his optics closing briefly and his fingers wiggling from where they dangled on either side of his helm.

“Mmm...Nice. What's this for?” he purred as the kiss broke and their lips dragged away from one another.

“Because I won't have an opportunity to do it again for the rest of the orn. Not with you stuck here.”

“...You're not going to let me down?!”

Prowl stood back up, and the smallest of smirks creeped up the corner of this mouth at his mate's befuddled look. “I'll agree with Ratchet and say that you need to learn your lesson.”

“W-wait, wait!” Sideswipe cried, his legs pedaling frantically at the open air. “You're my mate! I thought that you're supposed to protect me from everything!”

“There's a sub-clause in that rule for actions against Ratchet,” the white mech said over his shoulder as he pulled the tent's flap closed on his way out. He heard a long string of swears follow him out, and Perceptor's muffled snickering.


	7. Departure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I heard that you guys like Sunstreaker! The comments section of Iacon Prophecy _exploded._
> 
> Takes place at the same time as Chapter 6, during Sideswipe's second night with the Autobots.

Chapter 7: Departure

“Whether you help me or not, I'm going to find him!”

_“I am forming a team as we speak. I swear that you will be on it.”_

“I don't have time for you to pick out mechs! Sideswipe needs me, _now!_ So if you don't have somebody coming to pick me up in the next breem, then don't bother, because I won't be here!”

 _“Sunstreaker.”_ Sentinel's Prime's voice low and commanding over the commlink. _“You need to stop and think clearly. If you rush out of the city, alone and with few supplies, you'll likely die in the effort to find Sideswipe.”_

“You think that I care?!”

_“And if you die during the search, what chance does your brother have of being rescued?”_

Sunstreaker stopped pacing across the apartment at that, his pack's straps clutched tightly in one fist. 

Sentinel continued. _“You and your twin are among the strongest mechs that I have. You have the best chance of finding him, I know this. But you must wait until you have the resources to effectively search for him. If you fail, then Sideswipe has no hope of a rescue.”_

“You're not going to send a back-up team?!” Sunstreaker growled.

_“I will be giving you the best resources on your own team, but it will be everything that I can spare. I can't authorize a second team, not when most of my tacticians are telling me that Sideswipe is probably offline.”_

“He's alive!” the yellow mech barked, not realizing how badly he was shaking until the pack rattled. “I can _feel_ his spark! I don't know where he is, but I _know_ he's alive!”

 _“I know you do,”_ the Prime's voice became gentler. _“And if there's anyone that can bring him home, its you. But there isn't much hope in Kaon that Sideswipe will be found alive.”_ The comm hissed as he sighed through his vents. _“I need to look after the city's best interests, and that means keeping supplies where they are most needed. If it were not for the energon crisis, I would have all available hands on a mech-hunt for your brother.”_

“Don't give me that slag. We've worked with you long enough to know better. You don't give a scrap about either of us.”

 _“Regardless of what you think of me, I_ am _trying to help you.”_

“Uh-huh.”

_“I'll be sending Sideswipe's most recent partner with you.”_

“His partner...?” Sunstreaker refreshed his optics, then narrowed them. “Sideswipe and Swindle broke up before I left. I don't want him coming with me.”

_“He said that he and Sideswipe were still on good terms.”_

“Define _'good.'_ ”

 _“Sunstreaker, listen to me.”_ His voice returned to tight and frustrated. _“Swindle has moved goods between the cities of Cybertron hundreds of times; he understands the wildlands and the Decepticons better than anyone else that I can find on such short-term notice. He'll be invaluable to you.”_

“I don't need to _trade_ with the Decepticons; I need to take Sideswipe back!”

_“I'll be sending you with another shipment of energon. Paying a ransom would be the easiest and safest way to rescue your brother, and, if you'll pardon me, Swindle is more suited to work out the deal.”_

Sunstreaker's tanks churned. “...If he messes this up, I'll be taking ripping apart more than just Decepticon savages,” he hissed.

_“I will make sure he understands that. You know, he does want to see Sideswipe safely home again as much as both you and I do.”_

“Yeah, so he can use his rescue to bargain against Sideswipe for the rest of his life.”

_“Can you work with him, or not?”_

“...Yes, I can,” Sunstreaker relented. “Tell him that his aft better be ready at my apartment before dawn, or I'm leaving without him.”

_“I will. Good luck, Sunstreaker.”_

The golden mech didn't bother to answer before switching the commlink off.

He heard a keening whine, then realized it was coming from his own vocalizer. “...Fragging _Primus_ , Sideswipe...”

He stood in the center of the apartment for a long moment, unable and unwilling to move, his processor still trying to comprehend everything that had happened in the past several joors. 

He'd found Sideswipe's note as soon as he returned home from the job he'd taken across the city, and though he'd been irritated that his brother hadn't followed his advice to find credits from someone other than Sentinel Prime, he'd settled in and worked on the draft of his next commission. The wealthy client had been thunder-struck by the grand mural now adorning one of his walls, and had promised Sunstreaker more work in the future, for both himself as a dedicated client and his associates in his upper-class circle. The golden twin been happily doodling away, relieved that he'd found someone who could give him reliable employment as something other than a mercenary, and had been planning how he'd tell Sideswipe that they didn't need to take jobs from Sentinel Prime anymore, and that their lives were going to get better...

And that's when a yellow minibot had come pounding at his door, babbling about how Sideswipe had been captured by barbarians and taken away, along with most of his team's supplies. A gate officer had been trying to take report from the minibot at the same time, but this 'Bumblebee' had insisted on telling Sunstreaker everything first.

The joors since then had been a spark-shattering, frantic whirlwind. It had taken the rest of Sideswipe's team--a bunch of fragging minibots?!--two orns to drag themselves back to Kaon after he'd been captured, and the fast-moving patrol sent to pick up the kidnapped mech's trail were expected to come back empty-handed. Wildland mechs were smart enough to cover their tracks, and the patrol wouldn't dare venture all the way to the Decepticon camp, not with only a few mechs and weapons. But that was most likely where Sideswipe had been taken; none of the other local tribes were daring enough to invade Decepticon territory. Already, many Kaonites had concluded that Sideswipe was offline, either by becoming a barbaric sacrifice, or by even worse, unthinkable means. Sunstreaker's comm-mail was filled with condolences.

Yet he was certain that Sideswipe had not been executed by his kidnappers. Their twin-bond would have been torn apart if one of them had died. Pit, the two of them weren't sure if one spark would survive the other's extinguishment. But he could still feel him, though he was very far away, too far to even send a wordless ping. When in close proximity, the twins could use their bond to share emotions, ideas, thoughts, and if they concentrated, whole words and sentences. But right now, the only thing the twin-bond told Sunstreaker was that Sideswipe hadn't yet passed on to the Allspark.

The bond couldn't tell him if his twin was injured, not from this distance. He could not ignore the parade of scenarios that his imagination conjured to his twin's fate, none of them good. Sideswipe had described to his brother the nightmares he'd been having since their last job. Nearly every night, he saw himself bound to a sacrificial alter and struggling as he was stabbed through his spark...

Sunstreaker didn't believe in premonitions or visions. Neither of them did. But it was impossible to not acknowledge the timing between the nightmares and when Sideswipe had been captured by the Decepticons. 

Primus, if _he_ was frightened that they would come true, then Sideswipe must be utterly terrified.

The golden mech found himself on the move again without thinking about where he was going or what he was doing. The pack was in his hand, and he was shoving in items that he would need. A first-aid kit and a spare from a table drawer, energon goodie-boosters from the refuel station, even more Flexi-Plex from their shared washracks, spare crystals for both of their swords from his own room, and then from Sideswipe's room--

He paused, realizing where his feet had taken him.

He felt like he was invading a place of sanctity, even though either mech had always been comfortable with their brother walking into their personal quarters.

He half-expected his twin to leap out from behind his berth, crowing and laughing at how gullible Sunstreaker was to fall for another one of his pranks. Carried off by barbarians?! Ha! As if that would ever happen. Maybe to a weaker mech, but not to Sideswipe. He would laugh as Sunstreaker knocked him upside the head, and they would play-wrestle, and then everything would go back to normal.

But the room was deathly still. 

Most of Sideswipe's things were as they'd been before Sunstreaker had left to fill his commission. Sideswipe had been expecting to return within a few orns. Nothing was cleaned; anything that commonly laid in easy reach still rested where he'd put it. A vid-tape here, a frame-model magazine there, and a shelf of random knick-knacks that he'd managed to hold onto over his lifetime were scattered around one shelf. A couple of teeny models of gestalts were staring each other down, arms raised, frozen in a perpetual state of near-clobbering. Even the dent where Swindle had impacted the wall hadn't yet been banged out.

The only things missing were his sword, his rifle, and his ammunition box. As he looked at the empty sword holder, Sunstreaker reflexively rolled his shoulders, jostling his subspace pocket and feeling his own sword's molecules rattle around. Sideswipe had told him that he'd downgraded his own subspace pocket to save on the energon its maintenance required; he must have carried his sword by hand during his mission.

If he was going to be carrying similar equipment, Sunstreaker decided that he should do the same. Pulling out his own sword, the dimmed blade a dark red, he instead strapped it to his back, and calculated on his HUD the requirements for downgrading his subspace. As it ran the numbers, he reached for the little gestalt toys, and tucked them into the pack, keeping them safely nestled with the first-aid kit.

Primus only knew what Sideswipe's mental state would be like when he found him. Maybe a keepsake from home would help to calm him down.

Sunstreaker's spark nearly leapt out of its casing when he heard a fist pounding at the front door.

“Primus fraggit...”

Shouldering the pack, he stormed across the apartment, hurried to the front door, and yanked it open.

“I don't know why you think Sideswipe gives a flying-frag about you--”

He paused.

Swindle was not there.

At first, he thought he was staring at the empty walkway wrapped around the apartment building, the offices across the street, and the night sky beyond. But the movement of yellow plating below his optics caught his attention, and he looked down.

Bumblebee stared back up at him.

“Sunstreaker, I--”

The minibot gasped and jumped forward to block the closing door.

“Sunstreaker!”

“I've got no time for you!” he growled back. 

Metal squealed as the door scrapped against Bumblebee's arm, and he grimaced as he braced himself on the door's frame and kept it open, though barely. “I know who took Sideswipe!”

“So do I!”

“No! Sunstreaker, it wasn't the--”

“And I'm going to do what your team couldn't do, and bring him home!”

“ _The Decepticons didn't take him!_ ”

The opposing pressure on the door disappeared so fast that Bumblebee had to stumble to not topple over, and he grabbed the jam to keep his balance. Once he had his feet solidly under him again, he looked up at Sunstreaker's confounded faceplates.

“What...?”

“The Decepticons don't have Sideswipe,” Bumblebee repeated, more confidently this time. “But I know who does.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The scrawled drawing of a red face was laid next to a crisper, generated model of the same symbol the screen. Sunstreaker leaned his elbows on the too-small table as he leaned towards it, studying the duel images with narrowed optics. The optic-less red face stared back at him sternly.

“You're sure?”

Cliffjumper nodded as he pointed towards his drawing. “It's the last thing I saw on one of their ponchos before the barbarians knocked me out. My cortex had to reboot, and it made a back-up of my memory files just before it did, and this thing was sitting on my hard drive when I woke up. It must be the symbol of their tribe.”

Bumblebee had convinced Sunstreaker to come with him to the minibot barracks just outside one of the entrances to a spent energon mine. Even by minibot standards, their quarters were cramped, with each team sharing a unit with several bunk-berths, and the furniture was hilariously absurd for a standard-sized mech like Sunstreaker. The only circumstance that would have ever brought him here was if Sideswipe's life was in imminent danger, and frag him, it was. Sunstreaker expected his twin to laugh himself sick when he could tell him later about how he'd sat in a chair that could barely hold one of his aftplates, and conferred with a bunch of minibots at their refueling table.

The hologram projector at the center of the round table flickered off, then came back as it redrew a map of a sector of the wildlands encircling Cybertron's cities. Sunstreaker wondered why it was including such a wide area if Sideswipe had been kidnapped by a local tribe, until he saw that the little red face was indicated at a spot far north of Kaon. 

“The Autobots' territory is even further north than Tarn,” he breathed. “The frell were they doing all the way down here?!”

From where he sat to the mech's left, Bumblebee shrugged. “It's got us too. But all of the mechs had the same mark on their clothes, and when they took Sideswipe, they were heading north, away from the Decepticon camp.”

“...You're sure?” he repeated, his processor running all sorts of ideas as to why a northern tribe was in the southern hemisphere.

“We're still trying to puzzle it together as well,” Windcharger said, seeing how Sunstreaker's processor looked ready to burn itself out. “According to the Archives, the Autobots are a minor tribe, barely worth mentioning. They weren't on our brief with Sentinel Prime at all. They're too small to stand a chance against the Decepticons, so they should have never entered their territory, much less come this far south.”

Bumblebee hadn't said anything about this when an officer had been taking report from him at the same time. Sunstreaker turned to the yellow minibot. “Who else knows about this?”

“Only the mechs in this room.” Bumblebee gestured to the rest of the minibots seated around the table: Windcharger, Cliffjumper, Brawn, and Huffer. “This was the entire team, besides Sideswipe.”

“No wonder he was dragged away. None of you could have put up a decent fight.”

Several engines revved, but Bumblebee chose to ignore him. “While I went to find you, the rest of the minis went straight to the Archives. Besides a small edit about two deca-cycles ago, nobody's touched the entry about the Autobots in vorns. And we'd rather keep it that way.”

“But Sentinel can grant the equipment to--”

Huffer slammed his hands down on the table, interrupting Sunstreaker. “Sentinel set us up!”

Sunstreaker snapped his head towards him. “...Can you prove that?”

“We were attacked when our vehicle broke down! I thought it was just shotty machinery, but when I checked it once we'd cut ourselves free--”

“It was set up to fail.” Brawn crossed his massive arms, massive at least compared to the rest of his frame. “It would have broken down closer to the Decepticon camp, if we hadn't been pushing to move quickly. Huffer found it first, and I double-checked. Somebody didn't intend for us to ever return home.”

Windcharger's lips were pressed together tightly. “We may have been lucky that the Autobots found us first. They took our supplies, but spared everyone.”

“Except Sideswipe,” Sunstreaker hissed.

“There's one more thing I didn't tell the officer.”

“What?”

Bumblebee took a swift intake to gather himself. “Sideswipe was given some sort of a map to deliver to the Decepticons personally, along with our shipment. I was told that, if something happened to us, Sideswipe had to run it to the Decepticon camp. When we were attacked, he almost did that. But instead, he tried to save us. Tried to save _me._ ”

The golden mech drummed his fingers on the table as he let his cortex mull over this new information. “Did you see what the map was?”

Bumblebee shook his head. “The Autobots did, though. They knew what it was. And they immediately turned on Sideswipe. We guessed that it was because it was near his pack, so they figured out who had been carrying it.”

“And you haven't told Sentinel Prime this either?”

“Like Huffer said, we were set up.”

“And we're leaving,” Cliffjumper grunted. “I'm not going to stay here under a Prime that toys with our lives. Especially if he thinks _we_ might still have the map. We need to get out of here.”

The rest of the minibots nodded in agreement. Sunstreaker's optics flitted between them all.

“Well, I would just _love_ to help you to pack,” he drawled flatly, “but I've got concerns of my own to deal with.”

“Actually, they're the same as ours.”

He raised an optic ridge as Bumblebee continued.

“I promised Sideswipe that we'd send someone to rescue him.”

Sunstreaker had to refresh his optics several times, at first thinking that he'd misunderstood.

“...You think you can find him?” 

“We'll be the only ones actually looking for him. Sentinel doesn't care. Sideswipe was set up in the same way that we were. I'll bet good credits that the patrols he sent out to find him are just doing loops around the city.”

Sunstreaker turned his gaze back to the image of the red face, and it stared back at him.

“If you had told Sentinel the whole story, they'd be on their way to the Autobot camp right now,” he growled.

“Sentinel was ready to strand your brother near the Decepticon camp. For all we know, those patrols may have orders to gun him down on sight.”

“Sentinel Prime wouldn't do that.”

Huffer grunted. “He also wouldn't set our caravan to fail and leave us with no way to get home but our own two feet.”

Sunstreaker pressed his lips together.

...Could this really be true? 

Had Sideswipe escaped a set-up by their Prime?

But the Autobots were no saviors to his brother. Bumblebee had described Sideswipe as fighting the entire time, howling swears at them and struggling in his bonds as he tried not to be forced away from the other Kaonites. 

His spark clenched at the thought of his twin being dragged further and further away with each passing breem, screaming at his captors the entire time, and desperately praying for a rescue that Sentinel Prime would never deliver. He tried to banish the imagery away, but his twin's imagined cries rang in his audials, and his pump pounded, wanting nothing more than to sprint after him before those dreams he'd been having could become a reality.

“When do we leave?”

Some tension left Bumblebee's shoulders. “How fast can you pack a bag?”

“Already did.”

“Then within the joor, as soon as we can secure some rations.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sunstreaker raised his blue optics towards the starlit sky as he leaned against the inside of Kaon's perimeter wall, the reinforced steel soaking the chill of the night into his plating. The pollution that constantly hung around the city blocked most of the stars from his view, but he hoped that somewhere, wherever Sideswipe was, he could see them more clearly. His brother had a thing for constellation spotting. More than once he'd found the red mech out on their balcony, staring up at the night sky, claiming that the smog had broken just long enough for him to find Solus Prime's hammer, or some other slag like that.

Not far to his left, the minibots were bargaining with the gate guards, paying them off for staying quiet about their exit. While they were doing that, the golden mech had one more chore to complete before they left Kaon for good.

His commlink buzzed as he clicked it on, and he heard the dial-back of several ringing pulses before somebody picked up the other line.

“Do you know what time is?” a sleepy voice yawned in his audials.

“Second joor after midnight.”

“Normal mechs are getting their beauty recharge right about now.”

“I need a favor.”

He heard a grunt, and shuffling. The voice was more awake when it came back. “What's wrong?”

“I know where Sideswipe is. Or...I've got a general idea.”

“I do too. We all do. I'm so sorry, Sunstreaker--”

He growled. “Don't. He's alive. I know it. I _feel_ it.”

“Even if he is, he won't be for much--” The mech stopped himself. “...I'm sorry.”

“ _Don't._ The Decepticons don't have Sideswipe. It's a different tribe. And I'm going to find them.”

“Tonight? Now?!”

“Now.”

“...Sunstreaker, that's madness. Absolute, utter madness.”

“Yet less insane than staying here and fretting while my brother is carried off to who-knows-where by a bunch of savages.”

“What do you need me to do?”

“That paycheck I was supposed to get? Use all of that to put everything in my apartment into storage. All my stuff, and my brother's.”

The voice was silent a moment. “You're not coming back, are you?”

“I don't plan to.”

“What do I tell other mechs?”

“That I went crazy. I called you late at night, babbling insane nonsense about some conspiracy, and you wanted to make sure that I didn't destroy any of my projects at home while I was working through my misery.”

“Sounds plausible,” he said dryly.

“Whatever works. Think you can get it done before dawn?”

“I have mechs in your part of the city that owe me a favor.” More shuffling. The mech was pacing around. “Sunstreaker, was there never a Decepticon attack? Is someone in the city threatening your brother?”

“Yes to both of those. Kind of. He _was_ abducted by barbarians. But they weren't Decepticons.”

“Then who--”

Sunstreaker turned his head to the side at a flash of movement. Bumblebee was waving to him.

“I need to go.”

“But--”

“Now.”

The voice paused. “...Good luck, Sunstreaker. I really do hope that you find your brother.”

“Thanks.”

He switched off the link to his client, then turned his back to the city, hurrying towards where the guards had stepped aside and the minibots were hurrying through an open door. On the other side of the long hall that went right through the perimeter wall, Sunstreaker could see the sprawling plains of the wildlands, eclipsed by night.

“I'm coming, Sideswipe,” he whispered, his spark pulsing out to the other half of his spark, even if his brother wasn't close enough to feel it. “I'm coming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter leads right into [this soundtrack.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4i8qVrLJgG0)
> 
> You guys know how long ago I wrote this chapter and had to sit on it to not spoil anything?!


	8. Former

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place between Chapters 27 and 28.

Chapter 8: Former

The improvised cover of hides over the wagons kept the sun off of those sitting inside who were not _yoska_ , or were carrying, injured, or had other reason to not be walking with the rest of the tribe. Jazz appreciated it, and let his visor dim a little as he took a sip from the mug clutched in one hand.

Around him, the rest of the mechs who had returned from patrol rested or slept. If they forced themselves they could still get out and walk, but Optimus had insisted that they had earned a break, and they'd all crawled into a wagon, shoving aside wrapped tent liners, chests and containers as they made a space for themselves and settled down. Some of them were copying Jazz and nursing their own mugs of high-grade.

The black-and-white mech stretched his legs out with a groan, letting coolant run through his lines and soothe his worn servos. 

A hand snaked in from beyond the hide cover and patted his foot, startling him upright.

“Gah! Don't do that to a mech!”

Prowl chuckled, then grasped the side of the wagon and hoisted himself in. The smile on his face vanished as soon as he saw the high-grade in his friend's hand.

“...How bad?” he asked quietly, optics glancing at the other nomads in the wagon, who were in various states of weariness.

Jazz made a face at him and took another sip. “All of our neighbors are too frightened of gettin' on the Decepticon's bad side to offer any help.”

“Do they really think that the Decepticons have the time and power to seek them out?”

“...I came across at least three camps that had been burned. Found one o' our patrols piled up in the center.” His grip on his mug tightened. “Backburn's carrier was among 'em.”

Prowl hissed through his vents, and his doorwings dipped low on his back. “Have you spoken to Optimus?”

“Soon as I got back. He went off to find the femme who's 'sittin' 'em.”

“Their attackers, do you think that they were--”

“I dunno. If it's somebody else, then we made a smart decision by movin' anyway. But if it _is_ them--”

“They would be targeting us, not our neighbors.” Prowl's optics were flashing, and Jazz let his friend think, used to how his odd but brilliant cortex worked. “It's not them. Can't be. They would be trying to box us in, and prevent us from moving Sideswipe further away from them.”

“You're sure?”

“I'm positive. It's not the Decepticons.”

“Ain't changed that there's burned-out camps, an' everyone's scared,” Jazz sighed. 

Prowl's optics flashed again, and he thought on it for longer.

“...I take it back. It could be an advance group. Meant to terrorize our allies into pacifism.”

“If it is, they're doin' a great job. Some tribes flat-out wouldn't talk to me, as if the breem that they did, a bunch o' Seekers were gonna come chargin' over the hills. An' the ones that would see me don't have the mechs to spare to help us fight, or had any idea what the Iacon prophecy is saying.”

“So...we're on our own.”

The two of them sat in a communal silence for a while. The wagon continued to rattle on, the Minotoron pulling it grunting as it ascended a hill, and the mech at the front of it whistled as he lead it around a different obstacle.

Jazz shifted uncomfortably. “I'm sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Prowl said immediately. “I know that you saw as many tribes as you could.”

“...Think the advance groups will tell the rest o' the 'Cons that we're leavin'?”

“It would take them decacycles to rendezvous with Megatron, if he's on his way back to his own territory.”

The light behind Jazz's optic band flashed at the other mechs, then to Prowl before he lowered his voice to a whisper. “What are we gonna do? The prophecy's useless to us right now, and the 'Cons will come back eventually.”

“I'll figure something out.” Prowl pressed his lips together for a moment, his optics flashing one more time, but this time his expression wasn't as confident when he looked to Jazz again and not some far-off spot of the wildlands. “I feel like we have all the pieces to a puzzle, but we're not putting them together correctly. We've forgotten something.”

“Like what?”

“I'm not sure.” The white mech pointed at his chevron. “I keep concluding that they'll be a positive outcome to all this. But I don't know _how._ Just that we have everything, and all we need is a little more time to realize what we're doing.”

“Won't take Megatron long to know that ya'll tricked him. He'll be back before winter.” He tugged his cloak around him a little tighter. “An' it's already gettin' chilly.”

“I'll figure it out,” Prowl repeated. 

“...So how's the gossip been while I was away?” Jazz asked, trying to lighten the mood.

Prowl's optics brightened substantially at that. Immediately Jazz's spark perked up from where it had been swirling around at the bottom of its chamber in an uncharacteristically disgusted frustration.

“Prowl?”

“Come with me.”

The nomad turned and hopped out of the wagon, stumbling a few steps and flaring his doorwings to balance himself. With a mumbled swear, Jazz abandoned his high-grade, and followed him, his jump far more nimble despite his exhaustion. He didn't gloat about it, instead curiously trotting after his friend as Prowl headed for the center of the wagon train.

“Prowl?” Jazz asked again, raising his hand once in greeting to other _yoska_ who noticed him, though he kept close to the white mech. “What's gotten into you?”

“You need to see this.”

His spirits lifted further, and his trademark grin returned to his faceplates. “Must be good, if you won't just tell me.”

“It is. But you won't like it much.”

“Oh?”

They moved to where the most protected huddle of wagons were gathered: those that transported the recently injured and those with new sparklings. Jazz noticed Sideswipe perched on the side of one of them, and at first his tanks sank at the thought that Prowl had left his wounded mate, but a second glance over the red mech proved that he was fine. Sideswipe wasn't looking for him, and instead was more concerned with a golden mech that Ratchet was working on inside the wagon's bed, one that Jazz didn't immediately recognize.

“Wait.”

His optic ridges shot up when the golden mech hissed something in the growling city-language.

“Is that--?!”

“Sunstreaker.” Prowl crossed his arms. “Sideswipe's twin.”

“He finally got here safely?!”

“ _Sa._ Springer brought him in several orns ago.”

“Springer brought--”

His processor put two-and-two together, and he turned and stared at Prowl for a second. His friend only graced him with a rare, mischievous smile, one that never meant good things.

“...FRAGGIT!”

Some of the walking _yoska_ turned his way in alarm, so Jazz instead ran around the nearest wagon, out of sight, and continued his tantrum there, jumping up and down, stomping, flailing his hands and kicking aside rocks.

“Fraggit, fraggit, FRAGGIT!!” 

His mood turned even worse when he heard stifled cackling behind him.

“It's not fair, Prowl! He's got a twin who's even better lookin' than he is! _And I missed him!!”_

“Should I ask if he has a triplet?”

“Oh, frag off!”

He stomped around in circles, then composed himself enough to scramble forward and peer around the wagon at the healers' cart. Sunstreaker was muttering something to Ratchet, who was working on an ugly, jagged laceration on his back plating. Sideswipe translated for his brother, and in response, Ratchet whapped Sunstreaker upside the head with his tool. Then repeated it for Sideswipe when the red twin laughed at Sunstreaker's surprised yelp of pain.

“Springer's not gonna be a good mate for him, Prowl! Ya know that!”

“There were circumstances that needed to be addressed. Sunstreaker needed a mate, quickly. Springer had already partially fulfilled his role, and volunteered. He might have had the same optic for him that you do.”

“You know what Prowl, when ya'll really want to be an aft, ya'll _really_ are an aft.”

Sideswipe was rubbing his head and whining, and for that earned another whap on the other side of his helm, snapping his head in the other direction. At what must have been a snarled complaint from Sunstreaker, he received a second one too.

“So after all the slag between ya'll and Sideswipe, ya think Springer can handle his twin just as well?”

“To be honest, I'm not sure,” Prowl admitted. “That's up to the two of them. But Sunstreaker _refuses_ to leave his twin here alone. He'll work with Springer if he has to so that he can remain with the Autobots.”

Now both twins were yelling at Ratchet. And were quickly silenced, the tool rebounding slightly off one of Sunstreaker's headvents and making him grab it as it wobbled.

“If he has to?” Jazz turned back to him. “So they're not bonded yet?”

“ _Na._ But,” he held up a hand when Jazz started bouncing up and down on his feet excitedly, “their agreement was that Springer would give Sunstreaker all the time he needs to woo him, as if they were back in the city, and then they _will_ bond.”

“How long does it take for 'em to decide to become mates in the city?”

“Much longer than we do,” Prowl shrugged. “But it's as important to him as it was to Sideswipe. I overstepped my bounds with him when I did not understand that, and it's still a source of contention between us. He _still_ does not trust me fully yet.”

Jazz gapped at him. “How do city-dwellers _survive_ if it takes them this long to accept a mate?!”

“They don't face as many dangers as we do. If we took as long as they did--”

“We would die out!” Jazz finished. “We wouldn't have time to have sparklings before one o' us was offlined for one reason or another. So they just wait an' try to see who's _best_ to woo first, outta all the mechs that live in a city?! That's ridiculous.”

“Not quite with _every_ mech, but they reject potential mates far more easily than we do. When Sunstreaker learned that I had bonded with Sideswipe, he immediately assumed that I had forced him into it.”

“ _Really?!_ I didn't see you do _anythin'_ with him until just before we got back home, an' all o' that was just touchin' and—the thing with the mouth?”

“Kissing, he called it.”

“Right, right.”

“But even that was supposedly too much, too fast.”

“What weird mechs.”

Sunstreaker had decided that he wanted nothing further to do with a healer who would beat him over the head at the same time that he was repairing his back, and was trying to squirm his way out of the wagon. Sideswipe grabbed his arm with a squawk, yanking him back in, and Ratchet's voice raised before his tool crashed into Sunstreaker's helm, and then Sideswipe's again for when he bellowed at him angrily.

Jazz wondered if the healer had realized that the twins' helms made different sounds when they were hit, and was striking them there on purpose.

“Prowl.”

“ _Sa?_ ”

“Why didn't ya tell me _that's_ why Sideswipe was so angry with you after you bonded?”

Prowl didn't immediately answer him, and that made his tanks twist. Jazz lowered his voice, and when he spoke, there was a dangerous tint to it.

“Did he hurt you?”

“Jazz...”

“ _Did he hurt you?_ ”

The white mech's shoulders rose and fell as he allowed himself a long vent of air. “...He thought that he was backed into a corner.”

The other nomad's engine snarled. “You should have told me.”

“And what would you have done?” Prowl's optics narrowed at him. “Hurt him in kind because he panicked? He kept insisting that he was not ready to bond, even though he was compatible. I still do not understand its importance to him other than that it _is._ ”

“Did you actually force the bond?”

“No, of course not! But in his optics, I may as well have.”

“That's slag,” he growled.

“That's how it is.” His doorwings lowered again, and he crossed his arms over his chestplate. “Jazz, you didn't see the look in his optics. He was _terrified_ of me. What kind of _yoska_ am I to inflict that upon my mate?”

“...Ya'll still should have told me when he hurt you.”

“Then you would have hurt _him._ He's still my mate, and I won't allow any more harm to come to him. Both physically...and to his spark.”

The twins had finally cooled down enough to instead only glare at Ratchet as he grumbled and worked on Sunstreaker's back. When he touched something and the golden mech twitched in pain, Sideswipe immediately put a hand on his brother's shoulder, steadying him, and Sunstreaker held still, while the healer paused long enough to let him compose himself again before continuing, his motions slower and more gentle.

“...Does Springer know 'bout this?”

“Only that the bond between Sideswipe and I could have been much stronger if I'd allowed it to go at his pace, as excruciatingly slow as it may be. Springer won't be making the same mistake with his new mate.”

“Speakin' of, where is that slagger? His mate's injured, and he ain't here.”

“Seeing to Hot Rod, I think. We had to deal with an uncooperative bull earlier this orn. Sunstreaker stopped it from trampling Hot Rod; that's how he was injured. The youngling's still shaken up.”

“Aww, I miss all the fun.”

Prowl snorted. “Springer's also had to console him after Sunstreaker injured him when they first met. It was an accident,” he said over Jazz's outraged shout. “He thought that Hot Rod was one of those undersized mechs that we saw when we took Sideswipe. Minibots, he calls them. But anyway, Hot Rod still takes his priority, even over Sunstreaker, until he bonds. He's had his hands full these past few orns.”

“And on top of everything, his new mate wants to take his time until...how long again?”

“As long as it takes.”

“As long as it takes,” Jazz repeated, and shook his head. “Fraggit all. What a mess.”

“You said it.”

“Ya really think that his trust can be earned now?”

“I'm not sure. Springer's got his work cut out for him.”

“I wasn't talkin' 'bout Springer.”

Prowl grimaced, and gripped the plating on his arms a little tighter.

“...I think it can,” he murmured. “If he's given time, space, and assurance that I've never meant to harm him. Things _are_ better, Jazz. We both realized that we'd harmed each other, and we've been trying to keep things peaceful since then.”

“There's a difference between bein' at _peace_ with someone and bein' _bonded_ to them.”

“I doubt that I'm the first mech to ever have difficulties with their mate.”

“Do ya need some help?”

His doorwings twitched upwards. “You were ready to threaten him just a breem ago.”

“For somethin' that ya'll seem to have already forgiven him over,” Jazz smirked. “I still think that ya should have come to me and told me when things were that bad early on. Frag knows ya'll were draggin' ya feet 'round my tent an' babblin' 'bout how ya'll couldn't bond to a city-mech long 'nough to make my head spin all those orns ago.”

“Moving too fast is exactly what the problem stems from, but I do appreciate you supporting me that night.”

“What good am I if I can't toss a mech to his mate when he's gettin' cold peds? Seriously though, I want to make sure that you're happy with Sideswipe. Ya'll are workin' ya aft off for him.”

“He's a welcome challenge.”

He wasn't fooled. “Uh-huh.” 

“...Is there a way to make Sunstreaker more comfortable with being an Autobot?”

“What?”

“His twin.” Prowl gestured forward, towards the healers' wagon. “Their bond is even stronger than that of mates. If he's frightened and reclusive, Sideswipe may be as well, if not only focused on supporting his brother. Once Sunstreaker feels at ease with being part of the tribe, maybe Sideswipe will be too.”

“...Good point.” 

Jazz put his hands on his hips and cocked his head back towards the sky as he thought. There were a few clouds skirting around in long waves, but far beyond that, the sky was a fine shade of blue....

A fine shade of blue...

He snapped his fingers.

“Got an idea.”

Prowl had dropped his arms, and started to follow him as Jazz turned around and worked his way back down the wagon train. “What? What is it?”

“Well, I got high-grade to finish, an' I wanna rest for 'nother joor or so, but then I'll head over to one o' our neighbors for somethin'.”

“Jazz, you just got back!”

“ _Sa_ , but I won't be gone long this time. Just gotta call in a favor.” He grinned at his friend over his shoulder. “Or two.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I watched Machinima's Combiner Wars.
> 
> I have opinions. Strong opinions. ANGRY opinions.
> 
> Who the hell made this crap?!
> 
> I think I'll watch it again to make fun of it, but otherwise, jeeee-zus. What a waste of hype.
> 
> On a happier note, Happy 32nd Birthday, G1 Transformers!


	9. Guardian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place at the same time as Chapter 29, while Sideswipe is talking to Optimus.

Chapter 9: Guardian

Sunstreaker grunted quietly as he shifted and rested the back of his helm on one arm. His headfins always made sleeping in any position other than directly on his back or belly a complicated affair. Although beautiful, the fragging things tended to get scratched up easily while he was recharging if he wasn't careful with how he lay. Thank Primus for the abundant pillows on the shared mat.

His optics flitted to his left. Beside him, one of Springer's thick arms was wrapped around the orange youngling cuddled up into his side, and his free hand was petting Hot Rod's helm as the young mech recharged. The excuse he'd apparently used to bring Hot Rod back to the tent immediately was that he needed a nap. He'd spent the night somewhere else, after all, and if it had been to be near a playmate then he doubted that he'd gotten a decent recharge. Hot Rod had tried to argue that he was too old for naps, and wanted to go play, but Springer had kept him confined to his arms, turning the youngling's kicks and wiggles into an impromptu play-wrestling session.

Less than a joor later, right in the middle of grumbling that the bigger mech was squishing him, Hot Rod gave in to being cuddled and passed out.

Sunstreaker observed the duo for a while, and if Springer knew that his mate was staring at him, he ignored him in favor of slowly rubbing the youngling's head, keeping him soothed and in a sorely-needed recharge.

“...What happened to your tribe?”

“Hmm?” Springer finally looked up at him and refreshed his optics. “What?”

“Your original tribe.”

“We were attacked. Completely overpowered by a rival tribe. I should have died with the rest of my friends, but I didn't.”

Both of them were silent for a while. Then Sunstreaker blew air out of his vents, frustrated.

“Look, I _am_ trying to understand you. Work with me, okay?”

Springer grimaced, and for a moment Sunstreaker assumed that he wouldn't get a better answer than that. But with a quieter sigh of his own, he spoke, his voice low to not wake up Hot Rod.

“I was something like what the Autobots call their _yoska_ in my own tribe. Not quite, though. We fought, and only fought, none of this building and herding and overseeing the sparklings nonsense. I led one of the best fighting teams that we had. The Wreckers. We could take out anything, and anyone. All the other tribes in the area feared mine, and mostly left us alone. We got so powerful that we had a few client tribes pledging loyalty to us.”

“Like the way a small town will to a city?”

“I don't know how that works.”

“The city provides a subsidiary of energon in exchange for mechs and credits.” 

Springer paused as he thought about it. “Something like that.”

“So what happened?”

“One of them thought that they weren't getting a fair deal, and betrayed us. They swore to a larger tribe that they would pledge allegience to them instead, if they could get rid of us for them. Their territory was nowhere near our own, and we weren't expecting the attack. They were stronger than we were, and were more than twice our size. They were burning our camp within a joor after arriving.”

His grip on the youngling tightened.

“When I saw Hot Rod's carrier go down, and realized that he had no chance of surviving on his own...I grabbed him, and ran. Sunstreaker, I _never_ run from a fight, ever. No Wrecker ever does. I would have gladly given up my life in that battle, especially if it gave the others in the tribe time to escape. But even if I had died honorably, I couldn't bring myself to make Hot Rod do the same thing when he was barely old enough to hold a weapon.”

“And so you came here?”

He nodded. “I couldn't take shelter with any of our other client tribes. I couldn't trust them, not with a youngling in my arms and depending on me to survive. So I walked to the Autobots' territory instead. The Autobots took one look at Hot Rod and accepted him in immediately. I intended to leave him there and return to avenge my tribe, but this poor guy started bawling each time I tried to leave.” He snorted. “Not that he'll admit it now.”

Sunstreaker pushed himself up to rest with his elbows behind him, placing him a little higher than Springer. He'd been attempting to rest too while the green mech got Hot Rod to nap, but now he doubted that he could recharge at all. “Can't you convince him to let someone else adopt him? Or, you know, _get better at raising him?”_

Springer narrowed his optics. “I know how to care for his basic needs. He's old enough now that he doesn't need a new carrier. He barely needs me at all anyway.”

“Oh really?” He pointed at them. “Then what do you call that?”

The nomad looked down at the top of the youngling's helm, where he'd been still absently petting him. “...A basic need.”

“Oh c'mon, I've barely interacted with younglings before now, and even I know that's scrap.” Sunstreaker sat up completely, and turned to face them as he crossed his arms. “Basic needs are what you do to keep him alive. Making sure that he's comfortable while he takes a nap isn't one of them.”

“And here we go again,” Springer groaned. “Who are you to judge me when you can't do _anything_ with a youngling or sparkling?”

“At least I can admit to it! Somehow I can even point out when somebody is doing something wrong too!”

“That's _all_ you can do!”

Underneath Springer's arm, Hot Rod began to stir and move. “What's goin' on?” he mumbled sleepily, his optics blinking online.

Immediately Springer stiffened, his dentals clenched, and returned his mate's glare. “I was just telling Sunstreaker here that I need to take watch, so you're going to take a nap with him instead, _sa?”_

Sunstreaker stared at him. “What?”

“What?” echoed the youngling.

Before either of them could protest further, Springer climbed to his knees, then half-gave, half-pushed Hot Rod into Sunstreaker. Both the ex-mercenary and the youngling grunted, and though a golden arm automatically went around Hot Rod to support him in his new position against his side, Sunstreaker hissed his engine at his mate.

“I didn't say that I would--”

“Would get better at taking care of a youngling?”

After a quick adjustment of his poncho, Springer headed for the tent's exit.

Sunstreaker tried again. “I don't know what I'm doing!”

Springer paused, his hand on the flap.

“...Neither do I. With him, or with you.”

And without another word, he was gone. The tent seemed suddenly quiet and empty without the green mech's presence, even though both of them could hear his footsteps storming away. Sunstreaker stared at the tent flaps, then mentally cursed at himself, and his 'mate.'

“...What now?”

Sunstreaker turned his head and looked down at Hot Rod, who was alarmed by his guardian's quick exit and was too keyed up to go back into recharge. Not while being held by a mech that he'd known for only a few orns, anyway.

...What now, indeed?

“Not going to be able to convince you to go back to recharge, am I?”

Hot Rod shook his head.

Sunstreaker vented. “Right.”

He looked around. Compared to his and Sideswipe's apartment back in Kaon, the tent was spartan, and that wasn't to say that the twins had owned much that he could use to distract a youngling anyway. There were the blankets and pillows on the both his mat and the smaller one that had been unused for several orns thus far. A few chests were piled towards the back of the tent, but he doubted that they held anything that Hot Rod should get his hands on if they were locked. He did have a few toys scattered by the smaller mat, and Sunstreaker was about to suggest one of those...

His optics fell on his pack, leaning on one of the chests.

He'd forgotten all about it. Most of their needs were met with items that were already in camp, and the only things unique left within it were a few first-aid items that Ratchet did not normally stock, and--

Sunstreaker smirked to himself, and let Hot Rod sit by himself as he got up and grasped the top of its handle.

Surely Sideswipe wouldn't mind.


	10. Expert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place at the same time as Chapter 30.

Chapter 10: Expert

“So then he says 'Grr, you haven't left my hill, so now I will eat you!' But then this guy goes and gets his arrows--”

“He has arrows?”

“ _Sa!_ ” Looking around, Hot Rod found a small stick on the floor of their tent, and shoved it into the gestalt's hand. “It's an arrow!” he proclaimed, even though the stick was nearly as big as the toy.

Sunstreaker crossed his arms as he sat back. “Uh-huh.”

“So he takes it, and he throws it, but it's not going fast enough! It just bounces off the monster's armor, and he's even madder--”

The gestalt toy fled down the blanket 'hill', or rather, bobbed up and down to emphasize the frantic movements of someone sprinting to get away from the Hill Monster, held in Hot Rod's other hand. The youngling made snarling noises from his vocalizer as the Hill Monster chased the 'hero' through the landscape that was the mat's ruffled blanket, the other mech turning every so often to see if he was still being followed, screaming, and double-timing away.

Sunstreaker couldn't help a snorted laugh at Hot Rod's antics. The story didn't make much sense, especially not with a youngling as the storyteller, but Hot Rod was having fun giving life to his imagination's adventure through the toys, and he _was_ entertaining to watch. 

Hill Monster suddenly gained the ability to fly. Or it had leapt up and was levitating. Sunstreaker wasn't sure. Either way, Hot Rod's 'hero' panicked and ran in a circle when he saw this, then threw himself behind one of the pillows in an attempt to hide.

“But then, suddenly, he found it!” Hot Rod crowed. “The legendary bow! That's how he'll use the arrow on the Hill Monster!”

The 'hero' popped back up, still clinging to the stick. Hot Rod shoved it forward, as if it were throwing something, then tossed the Hill Monster backwards.

“'Ouch! That hurt!' the Hill Monster yells! And now he's scared, because these arrows can go right through his armor! So he starts crying for his carrier, and back to the hill he goes...”

'Hill Monster' sobbed and scrambled back along the blankets. The 'hero' leapt for joy.

“I win! I win! I win!”

“Good job, Rodimus Prime,” Sunstreaker smirked. “But that's not the end of his adventures, are they?”

Hot Rod shook his head. “ _Na, na,_ he's going to get into a lot more trouble soon enough.”

“Especially from--”

A golden hand snatched up the 'Hill Monster' gestalt from the youngling, then dangled it over him.

“The Evil Emperor Unicron! He's coming to swoop down and get you, Rodimus Prime! GRRR!”

With a roar, Sunstreaker sent the toy gliding down towards the 'hero' gestalt. Hot Rod shrieked, then shoved his toy back at Sunstreaker's.

“I'm not running away from you, Unicron!”

“Grr, you should, grr!”

The toys batted at each other, the cheap metal clanging and banging as Unicron and Rodimus Prime dueled in midair. Hot Rod shouted as Rodimus Prime tried to out-maneuver Unicron, who quickly followed his nemesis, looping through the air after him and appearing in front of him.

“You'll never beat me and my arrows! They'll slice through anything!”

“Not if I hit your weak point for massive damage first!” Sunstreaker declared. “Attack!”

'Unicron' abandoned his chase of the other toy, and instead dove at Hot Rod's flank. It had been many, many vorns since the twins had been younglings, and although they'd had no practice with kids since they'd gotten their Standard frames, Sunstreaker hadn't forgotten a few things from their early days. His fingers grasped for a seam between Hot Rod's armor plating, and wiggled his fingers. The youngling shrieked and fell backwards.

“Tickling is cheating!” he cried.

“The Evil Emperor Unicron never plays fair! Mwhahaha!”

Pinning him, Sunstreaker tickled the orange youngling mercilessly. Hot Rod squealed and kicked, shoving his smaller hands at Sunstreaker's to try to get him off, even abandoning his toy to eventually roll over and scramble out of his reach.

“Running away, Rodimus Prime?!”

“I never run!” Hot Rod declared. “I just need a bigger weapon!”

“Like what—DOOF!”

The pillow didn't cause any damage, but it did surprise him, and he nearly rolled backwards. 

“I win! I win!”

“Fine, you win, you win,” Sunstreaker grumbled, shoving the pillow off of him. He'd seen Springer and Hot Rod rough-house, and though he doubted that the youngling could hurt him while playing, he wasn't sure if the opposite was true. He could hold his punches as well as he could throw them, but those were against Standard-sized mechs. Hot Rod wouldn't know when to duck.

“Yes!” Hot Rod pumped his fist in the air, and did a short victory dance. “Rodimus Prime is triumphant, and the universe is saved!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Good job, kid.”

“I need to show these to my friends!”

He gathered up the toys again, but before he could run out the door, Sunstreaker grabbed his arm and stopped him.

“Whoa! Hang on, it's raining out there!”

“So?”

“You'll get wet!”

Hot Rod refreshed his optics at him. “I'm not supposed to get wet?”

Primus, was his cortex disabled?! “It'll damage your armor!”

“Only a little bit!”

“Only a little—Hot Rod, sit down. We'll find something else for you to do.”

The youngling huffed, but did as he was told, and flopped back down on the mat, a toy gripped in each hand. Frowning at him, Sunstreaker crossed his arms, then looked around.

The pattering of rain against the tent liner made him nervous. It wasn't an intense storm outside; it was just a short rainfall that would probably dissipate overnight. But the tent was not a proper shelter like a city building. Had everyone ducked inside the nearest tent once it had started? What would they do once the wind picked up?

He returned his attention to Hot Rod, who was making growling noises as the two gestalts clashed again.

And he had to make sure that the youngling didn't go stir-crazy and try to run outside and get his armor melted. The toys were a fantastic distraction, but they would only work in the small tent for so long.

Primus, he didn't know what he was doing. Why in the Pit had Springer left him with the youngling, especially when rain had been on the way?! What else could he do?!

He kept looking around. He didn't have much else to work with. The blankets and pillows might make a good fort. Springer might have something hidden away in one of the chests that he could read to him. He recalled back to his and Sideswipe's younglinghood when they used to play The Floor is Lava, and giggle at each other as they leapt on top of pieces of furniture. With everything so low to the ground in the tent, that wouldn't be a very good game. And with Sideswipe still blocking him out while he was with Prowl (an image that he immediately tried to delete from his processor; he knew his brother loved his mate, but he didn't want to imagine him getting fragged by the barbarian), he couldn't ask his twin for advice.

His optics drifted back to the tent walls.

And stayed there.

“...Hmm...”

“What is it?” Hot Rod looked up. “Is there a tear?”

“No. Hot Rod, does Springer keep any charcoal around here?”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“...You did this?”

“No, some weird femme walked in, knocked me down and went to town all the walls. Of _course_ I did this.”

Hot Rod bounded up to Sunstreaker's side. “And I helped!”

“And Hot Rod helped.”

The look on Springer's face was well worth any retribution that Sunstreaker anticipated that he would get for graffiting the inside of his tent. THEIR tent, he reminded himself. Sweeping designs of mountains, rivers, cities, and forests surrounded the encircling walls. Most of them were simple, given that he only a stick of charcoal to work with, but where he had to sacrifice detail he made up for in the grandness of scale. 

And of course, everywhere there were Minotorons roaming around, even in the cities, thanks to Hot Rod.

“...How...?!”

“With charcoal. It'll wash off,” he explained as he raised his hands, “but I had to keep Hot Rod busy, and I figured that if there wasn't anything to draw on...”

“ _Na, na,_ that's not what I meant!”

Springer spread his hands.

“I knew that you were a _yoska_ , but I didn't know that you had a talent like this!”

“Of course I do,” Sunstreaker scoffed. “It's just hard to draw when I've got a sword in my hand.”

Springer mouthed “Wow!” as he looked around again. Then, after a moment of contemplation, his head snapped back to Sunstreaker, his optics glowing brightly.

“What if we got you some paints too? Would you like that?”

Sunstreaker leaned back a little. He was anticipating his mate to be angry, maybe even throw him out of the tent for the day while he cleaned up. He hadn't been ready for him to encourage him to draw even more.

“I...sure. Sure, I can paint too.”

Oh yes he could. And already his imagination was setting to work on what he could do with a wrap-around space, despite his cortex's misgivings on the situation.

“Tracks should have some to spare. Let's go!”

His upper arm was grabbed, and Sunstreaker gasped as they headed out of the tent. Just as they were passing through the flaps, he yowled and yanked himself back.

“Are you insane?! I'll get wet! _You'll_ get wet!”

“What?” Springer cocked his head at him. “If you don't want to get wet, then put your hood up.”

“And have the rain eat right through my clothes?! No, thanks!”

“...Eat through your...?”

“Sunstreaker thinks he'll melt if he gets wet,” Hot Rod cackled. Then, without warning, the youngling shoved him in the back. “You'll be fine! Go!”

He hadn't been expecting the heavy push by such a small body, and Sunstreaker's engine squealed in alarm as he stumbled outside. Immediately he felt the muddied shavings splashing around his feet, and he would have cried out in outrage at it, if the next feeling wasn't _rain peltting his armor._

Sunstreaker froze.

He was going to offline.

He had come all this way, and he was going to offline because some youngling pushed him out into the rain.

He...

...He wasn't melting.

Sunstreaker, in all of his golden magnificence, managed out a garbled “Buh?” from his vocalizer.

He wasn't melting. Other nomads were walking around. Or, running. They didn't like the be wet, but they weren't in pain, and no one was showing signs of injuries. One of the _yoska_ who apparently was on sentry duty was grumbling to himself as he made himself more comfortable on his perch on a fallen crystal stem.

Sunstreaker stared around him. Then looked up, shocked at the feeling of rain splashing on his optics, yet not hurting him any more than ordinary water would.

“I'm not melting?”

“You really thought that you would melt?!” Hot Rod shrieked as he stumbled outside and next to the bigger mech. “You've never been out in the rain before?!”

“N-No, no I haven't.” He kept staring upwards. “Not rain like this.”

His vision was obscured as his hood was suddenly yanked over his head.

“C'mon, you,” Springer chuckled. “Let's get you some paint.”

He should have been outraged, but all Sunstreaker could do was nod dumbly and let his mate lead him along, awed by the rain, and especially by how the orange youngling next to them easily and happily made a bee-line for the nearest puddle.


	11. Affair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place several orns before Chapter 1.

Chapter 11: Affair

The block between the twins was mostly effective when both of them had thrown up their own walls, and even better when they were preoccupied with something else. But sometimes that preoccupation made them forget that the physical world didn't work quite as effectively.

Sunstreaker swore to himself that the first thing he was going to do in the morning was insist that the twins look for an apartment with thicker walls.

He grimaced at the sketchpad in his hands, and tried to ignore the sounds that drifted from one berthroom to the other. But the more he thought about disregarding it, the more thought about that he was _thinking_ about disregarding it, which made him pay attention to it again. It didn't help either that with each moan and thrust, one of the paintings on his wall rattled.

When he'd finally had enough, Sunstreaker growled before leaning over and pounding his fist on the wall. Immediately the noises stopped.

“That's better.”

As he settled back into his chair, he swore that he heard his brother giggling, but he reminded himself that responding would only feed into Sideswipe's mischief further, so he went back to ignoring him. And it worked for a while as his twin tried to be considerate and keep things quiet.

Sideswipe couldn't do much about the squeaks of the berth, though.

That easier for Sunstreaker to deal with, and he returned his attention to his doodles. They weren't much, at least in his opinion. Just sketches, really, practice in the different ways a mech's joints could move. A few landscapes thrown in here and there. Nothing worth showing to anybody.

Simply putting a pen down on a pad and letting his hand do as it willed did wonders for his processor when something was bothering him. It wasn't disapproved of his brother interfacing with someone in the next room. Primus knew that their roles had been reversed plenty of times, with Sunstreaker mumbling apologizes down at a dazed lover when Sideswipe pounded on the wall and shouted that he was trying to recharge. It was the mech that his brother was sharing a berth with that made Sunstreaker's circuitry crawl as if a bunch of tiny organic insects were creeping up his plating.

Why couldn't Sideswipe sense it too? Or did Swindle keep him that overcharged whenever they were together that his twin couldn't understand how slimey he was, and that their relationship would probably end with Sideswipe losing all the credits in his subspace pocket? Then again...the twins were two different mechs, despite being a split-spark. Maybe Swindle really was the kind of mech that Sideswipe desired.

His own spark immediately shouted a negatory. Swindle was exaggerating the worst of Sideswipe's bad habits. And the glitch-head was too stubborn to see that for himself, not when his newest partner was a wonderful distraction from their last job for Sentinel Prime.

Something echoed through their bond, thankfully filtered to barely anything by the barriers that both of the twins had set, and Sunstreaker heard his brother cry out. The berth squeaked one more time from two frames flopping down on it.

Good. He'd be worn out from the overload, and Sunstreaker could get a few more breems of peace.

For a long while, he kept doodling, the drawings moving on to architecture, then copies of statues that he'd seen, then faces, some that he recognized, some that his cortex made up.

He heard voices. Nothing more than pillow-talk, and Sunstreaker didn't listen to more than their tone as he began a sketch of the curves of a femme that he'd bumped into the other day.

The voices continued.

Then raised, then one of them grunted as the berth let out a long and hard _squeaaak._

Sunstreaker's optics flitted up from his pad and towards the wall. His painting had rattled once on the last impact, then stopped.

Swindle was moaning something at Sideswipe. But Sideswipe's voice was either too quiet to hear, or he wasn't talking at all.

Then, suddenly, he heard him. He was _angry._

The berth squeaked again, and the painting rattled shortly afterward, but not in an undulating pace. More like one mech had pinned down the other.

Swearing lightly, Sunstreaker raised his fist again to pound on the wall. But before he could, he froze at a _roar_ from Sideswipe, and the feeling of _rage-disgust-FEAR_ that somehow smashed through both barriers.

Less than a second later, the painting was sent flying away from the wall as something heavy as a mech's body slammed into the other side.

The sketchpad followed the painting's flight across the room as Sunstreaker bolted upright and scrambled out the door of his berthroom, his optics nearly white as battle programming snapped online. A yellow and purple blur zoomed past him, startling him, and he took a step back out of the way just in time for Sideswipe to storm into the hallway and give Swindle another propelling shove across their living area and towards the door leading outside.

“I said get out!!”

Swindle raised his hands and tried a placating if not pained smile at him. “Now, now, Sideswipe--”

“ _Get out!!”_

The red mech took a step towards him, his body coiled as tight as a spring and ready to attack. 

He was quickly matched by twin.

Swindle's already big optics became tremendously huge as two of the most dangerous mercenaries in Sentinel Prime's employe loomed over him.

Instantly he changed his plan and fled. The door barely opened fast enough for him before he flung himself outside and scrambled around the corner and down the walkway that encircled the twins' apartment building. The door made an entirely dissatisfying light _click_ as it drifted shut behind him.

The air seemed to ring around them, and both twins could do little but stand there, both heaving ventilations, though Sunstreaker's was more in response to Sideswipe's. Their programming continued to search for the enemy, for more danger, as if Swindle or one of his croonies would decide to come back through a window or burst through the ceiling. But nothing ridiculous like that happened. The apartment stayed silent, aside from the twins' fans blowing at double-speed. The quiet was far more alarming than Sideswipe's screaming from a moment ago.

Then Sideswipe began to shake.

Instantly Sunstreaker had his hands on his brother's shoulders, and guided him to sit on the couch. Sideswipe slumped down, and rested his face in his palms as he hunched over.

“You were right about him, Sunny,” he mumbled into his hands. “You were right.”

Sunstreaker slid down next to him, and put an arm around his twin's shoulders, doing his best to ignore the smell of drying fluids and to not look at his lower body. “What did he do?” he asked quietly, at the same time pulling his side of the barrier on their bond down, and felt Sideswipe doing the same. “Sounded like you two were having fun until--”

“We were spark-playing.”

He felt his energon run cold. 

“...Have you...?”

“No, no, of course not,” Sideswipe growled. “I was careful. Neither of us can deal with a sparkling.”

“Then what happened?”

His brother's fingers squeezed into his palms, and Sideswipe's narrowed optics appeared above his fists.

“...He saw the nightmares. Just a glimpse of them. But he wanted to see the whole thing. I told him I didn't want to think about them, but he...”

A pained whine escaped his vocalizer, and before he could hide his optics again, Sunstreaker gathered him up and let his brother let out a strangled, angry cry into his shoulder instead.

“You're not seeing him again.” Sunstreaker wasn't giving his brother a choice this time.

Sideswipe nodded dumbly. His arms went around his twin to squeeze him in return. “I want just want these nightmares to end. I'm fragging _sick_ of them. Me and Swindle were having a great time until--”

“He shouldn't have tried to dive into your spark like that,” he snapped. “Nightmare or not, that was slagged up.”

“...Sunny, I _knew_ he was a piece of slag. But when I was with him, I could forget...”

“ _You're not seeing him again. Okay?”_

His twin considered him for a long while.

“...I need a drink,” he declared.

“I think you've had enough for today.”

Sideswipe sat up, and stared at his brother in the optics, but the light behind his own was unfocused. “If I'm not going to be seeing Swindle, then I'm getting a drink.”

“Sides...”

“ _Sunny._ I can't deal with these nightmares. I _can't.”_

Sunstreaker stared at him. Tentatively, he pressed at their bond, but all that he was met with was a swirl of _anger_ and _confusion_ and _pain._ His twin's spark was as hazy as his optics were, and not only because he was overcharged.

Sideswipe didn't know what to do for himself. And neither did Sunstreaker.

With a long, slow sigh, Sunstreaker let his brother slide off of him as he got up and headed over to the cabinet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want a playlist to listen to while you read The Iacon Prophecy? [Check this out.](http://www.pandora.com/stations/play/3342712019472753308?shareImp=true&isGooglePlay=1&sp=1&isBrowse=true)
> 
>  **Edit:** Also, what sort of weird A03 algorithm decides to post this underneath other fics that have been posted all day?


	12. Slow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep in mind as you guys read this that this was written and edited completely on a smartphone! When I get my new laptop, my writing will pick up again, but for now, have a Sidequest from shortly after the ending of The Iacon Prophecy.

Chapter 12: Slow

Despite the overwhelming urge to explore their new home, the leaders of the Autobot tribe began to set up camp as soon as a level field was found some distance from the downtown area, where the rubble looked no different than a rocky area anywhere else in the wildlands. A great number of _yoska_ were wounded, and more were mourning those who had not survived the battle and they could not yet bring themselves to join in with the rest of their friends’ excitement. Prowl volunteered with those setting up the healers’ tent, then helped Sideswipe to limp inside to be seen by Perceptor before leaving him and erecting their own tent some ways away. He left most of their belongings in the traveling chests for now, though he did set up the sleeping berth and threw on it every blanket and fur that he owned. He then hurried back and collected his semi-repaired mate, with instructions from Ratchet to let the red _yoska_ rest until his vital systems were running at full-capacity again. He led him back to their tent and laid him down on their berth, and no one dared to summon him away from his mate's side after that.

Sideswipe had been oddly compliant through all this, only grumbling a few times that he wanted to see Iacon after such a long journey to get there, but the moment his helm laid down on a pillow he fell straight into recharge, not moving as his mate wrapped the blankets and furs around him, his frame badly needing to rest after all he’d been through since the ambush. He’d stayed asleep for the rest of the orn.

Sunstreaker had stopped by to check on his twin, rousing him into partial-consciousness only briefly, the red mech groaning in response to his brother’s questions. Prowl ‘felt’ something happening on his bond with his mate, and knew that the twins were conversing on a level far deeper than verbal, even if Sideswipe never completely awoke. After a few breems Sunstreaker assured Prowl that Sideswipe’s frame was self-repairing, but his spark _badly_ needed to rest. Yet he stayed by his brother’s side, a hand gripping his twin’s fingers, silently ‘talking’ with him in a way that not even Sideswipe's mate could, and the golden mech left only when Springer came to ensure that his own mate recharged too. Prowl immediately sat himself in the same spot, and tried to beat down the naggling worm of jealousy that wrapped around his spark whenever he was reminded that Sideswipe’s bond to another would _always_ be stronger than their own.

For the next few orns Prowl took a secret delight in caring for a rebellious, independent Sideswipe that was wrapped up in blankets and asleep, quiet and healing and _safe._ The white mech stayed by his mate’s side, making sure that he was kept warm against the much colder climate of Cybertron’s northern mountains, and that he was comfortable and that none of his injuries were in danger of developing a rust infection. Thankfully all of his repairs were proceeding just fine, and yet Sideswipe remained deeply in recharge. Prowl cautiously prodded their bond, and each time he did he received a sleepy, incoherent answer that wasn’t much more than a slow pulse of energy, sometimes accompanied by Sideswipe shifting around in the blankets. By the third orn he had regained consciousness just long enough for Prowl to hand-feed him, to which he received no complaints for once as Sideswipe nearly fell back asleep while refueling, leaning heavily on his mate as he nibbled at the energon pellets offered in Prowl’s palm.

With his tasks excused while both mates’ vital systems were repairing, Prowl laid down with him often, snuggled up to the bigger mech, his arms wrapped around him and their helms touching. Sideswipe was unlikely to hear him, and he felt confident enough to whisper in his audials about how badly he’d panicked when he saw Sideswipe challenging Megatron, and scolded him for making him believe that he’d have to walk into Iacon alone. That, he grumbled at his mate as he clung to him, would have been the worst fate of all. Sideswipe’s impetuous tendencies were going to be the death of him someday. And yet Prowl wouldn’t change a thing about that, despite all of his complaining and worrying, despite it meaning that he may one day feel a bond being torn apart and find himself alone once more. He called him foolish, he called _himself_ foolish for saving his life and bonding to such a mech that might offline on him, and then he hugged him even tighter, relishing that he finally could, that nothing and no one would stop him. He shuddered, then pillowed his head on his mate’s shoulder and tried to get some recharge too.

His processor calculated that it was probably his imagination that Sideswipe’s limp hand had moved to stroke his one of his doorwings soothingly until he fell asleep.

By the fourth orn in Iacon Sideswipe was becoming more alert, and demanding to get up to go and see the city. Prowl pulled back the tent flaps so that his mate could look at their new home from the safety and comfort of their berth, and even though he’d been awed for a few breems, this only renewed a vigor to try to get up and explore. He nearly would have, if Ratchet hadn’t come by to check on him, and instantly forbade Sideswipe from leaving the tent if he could barely stand, let alone safely climb around the rubble. Prowl agreed.

Their tent once again became a battle of wills between two infamously stubborn mechs, with Sideswipe complaining that Sunstreaker was already out in Iacon somewhere (albeit trying to find where Hot Rod had run off to), and Prowl refusing to let him out from under the cloth roof, as if the moment he emerged a gust of wind would knock him over and break him. They debated, they yelled, they insulted one another, and then Prowl closed the flaps to make his point final, and Sideswipe would have thrown more than just pillows and furs at his mate if that alone hadn’t worn him out so much that he nearly passed out again. He kept grumbling at both his mate and his own frame even when Prowl sat down next to him and offered to hand-feed him.

It only got worse as the orn wore on into night. Sideswipe demanded to get up to at least take a walk around the camp and make sure that his friends were alright. Prowl threatened to bring back Ratchet, who would surely glue him upside down to the center pole _again_ if he knew that he was giving his loving mate such a hard time.

Eventually the white _yoska_ concluded that if he wanted to keep Sideswipe sated, then he had to keep him from being bored while he was denied the new home that awaited them outside.

Prowl could at least remedy _that._

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Unnnghh…”

Sideswipe’s groan was muffled by Prowl’s lips over his own, which was immediately returned as Prowl turned his head to deepen the kiss and shifted his weight from how he was straddling the red mech to rest his knees on either side of him, wiggling his hips as he did so. Black hands were gripping his shoulders, not as tightly as he knew that Sideswipe was capable of, but clearly demanding that his lover come closer, and he obligingly lowered himself down until he was half-sitting, half-laying on his mate, their chestplates scraping along one another's.

His own hands cupped Sideswipe’s helm, keeping him still as Prowl explored his mouth, as if it hadn’t been less than a deca-cycle since they’d last done this. Then again, the Decepticon ambush had been a mood killer of the worst kind, thus requiring them to take twice as much enjoyment of this time together now.

Sideswipe whined, and Prowl drew back to let him gasp and cycle air, while he instead leaned down to nibble at his neck cabling while Sideswipe panted and clung to his shoulders.

“I want you,” he slurred.

Prowl gave his chin a quick, pecked kiss. “You have me.”

“Not what I mean at all.” Red arms shifted down to cross and hug Prowl’s back, his fingers walking up and down one of his doorwings. “Pretty sure that I’m strong enough that you’re not going to split me in half from spiking me.”

“Mmm.” His own fingertips traced around Sideswipe’s jaw, continuing to hold his head still as his mouth moved back up to lip at a black audial horn. “You wanted a distraction, and you’re getting one.”

“And nothing more?”

“You _do_ want to get out of this berth faster, _sa?_ Then you will be careful and not over-exert yourself.” Prowl followed that with a short nibble at the audial horn.

“Forgot distracting, now you’re just teasing me,” he growled back, though there was no true ire behind it. “You just wait until I have my strength back, Prowl. You know what they say about revenge and cold meals?”

“I look forward to that. Until then…”

His doorwings flapped, batting Sideswipe’s hands away. When the red mech yelped and drew them back, Prowl’s own hands snapped up and captured his wrists, then held them against the berth on either side of Sideswipe's head. Sideswipe’s engine revved, the noise weaker than what he was used to hearing from his mate, but still challenging to anyone who would try to pin him.

Prowl let the bigger mech struggle under him briefly, keeping a firm grip on his wrists and pressing the weight of his frame over him. It was no true fight; he would never hurt Sideswipe, and his mate wasn’t trying to buck him off, instead only trying to wiggle, testing to see how tight Prowl was willing to hold him. Sideswipe gave up after a breem, panting through his vents and glaring up at his captor, his captured hands clenching and unclenching.

“Slagger.”

“Perhaps.”

He didn’t let go of him as he leaned down and pressed their lips together again. The revving of Sideswipe’s engine escalated as he lifted his head and kissed him back, just as hungry and not as willing to acknowledge the need to rest and repair. Prowl attempted to keep that point clear as he held his hands down, even when Sideswipe began to wiggle and struggle again, but this time the throaty, needy whining nearly made him release his mate and gather him up in his arms, or better yet, straddle him more effectively and grind their arrays together. 

Ratchet had said to be gentle while Sideswipe was self-repairing, he reminded himself.

Primus, this was going to be excruciating for both of them.

...Though, there were other ways to please his mate...

“Prowl…” Sideswipe moaned forlornly as the white mech’s kisses slowed. 

“Sideswipe.”

He squeezed his wrists, not enough to cause harm, but strong enough to get his attention.

“ _Stay._ ”

Sideswipe’s optics refreshed. It took his processor a moment to understand as his tired cortex brought up the translation program, and he glanced at one of the white hands imprisoning his wrists before nodding slightly.

“Okay. _I trust you._ ”

The acknowledgement of their earliest time together, as awkward and frightening as it had been, made his spark briefly swell. Sideswipe must have felt it, because he smirked and made sure to keep his hands perfectly still on either side of his helm, as if he were still being pinned, as Prowl released him and slid down his frame. The warmth building between their bodies was lost with the movement, but Prowl ignored that, instead shimmying backwards and gently moving Sideswipe’s legs as he went, guiding him to curl them up with his peds resting flat on the berth, until Prowl knelt with either thigh at his shoulder.

He heard Sideswipe’s voice from somewhere above him. “What’re you up to?”

“ _Stay,_ ” he commanded again.

Sideswipe huffed through his vents, but did as he was told. Then gasped and squeezed his hands into fists as he fought to keep them still while white fingers stroked along his closed array.

“Oh Primus! Prowl, I swear, you better not be just teasing--AH!”

One traced the seam of the port, then tapped it. It eagerly snapped open, and the slight flinch from Sideswipe told Prowl of how moving it so fast must have smarted. Still sheathed behind a secondary translucent panel, he could see the red _yoska’s_ spike beginning to fill, but he ignored it for now in favor of his valve.

One of these days he intended to attempt Sideswipe’s trick of toying with a spike with only his mouth. But that would have to wait for a day when he was at full strength again, and overloading via his spike wouldn’t cause him to pass out while still in Prowl’s mouth.

His valve, though, was a different story.

Leaning down further, and breathing in the scent that was distinctively _Sideswipe,_ he took a short, quick lick at the outer part of that section of his array. The brief yelp from his mate told him that his idea was both understood and approved, then further so when Sideswipe shuffled and lifted his lower half up higher, as if presenting it to Prowl.

“You won’t be able to do that for long,” he chided down at the mech, hearing the protesting buzz of the red mech’s circuitry. 

“Then hurry up,” Sideswipe hissed in retort.

Prowl eagerly agreed to that. One arm wrapped around the back of his waist, offering him some more support, and his mouth then descended onto his valve without much more prelude, though he made sure to only use his lips and glossa.

That didn’t stop Sideswipe from shrieking and tensing his struts.

“AH! You son of a--No, I didn’t say stop!” he cried out as Prowl started to lift his head up. “Y-You’re just not usually that fast!”

Prowl grimaced. He wasn’t expecting to hold so much of Sideswipe's weight. Not that he couldn't, but if even this was tiring a mech in the middle of repairs...

“You won’t be able to keep yourself raised up like this for long if you can barely walk.”

He noted that Sideswipe’s legs were already beginning to shake, but the red mech shook his head back and forth.

“I’m fine! C’mon, Prowl, don’t tease me like that and then tell me to stop--”

But his processor was already re-calculating what he _wanted_ to do with his mate and what he _should_ do. He really did want to try this position, and affirmed that he would later, once Sideswipe was completely healed. 

With his array as disappointed as his cortex and spark, he sadly began to lower Sideswipe’s aft back down, only for a black groin to be thrust up back at him with an aggressive rev of his engine.

“I swear to all things holy, Prowl, if you give up, then you better give me a stick or something and leave this tent so that I can finish myself in peace.”

The imagery of that nearly shorted out his circuits. The flash of _humor_ across their bond told him that Sideswipe had caught the expression on his face, but still, his mate was even more agitated than when they’d started, and now was not only still in dire need of a distraction, but now he was horney too.

Sideswipe was severely weakened but _desperate_ for an interface. How could he solve this?

His processor presented several more solutions to this dilemma on his HUD. He eliminated the first four ideas, but the fifth one was more plausible. Taking into account the state of Sideswipe’s frame and his current capabilities against his usual wants from the two of them interfacing, he edited it, then checkmarked his final decision at the same time as he guided Sideswipe’s aft to rest on top of one of the pillows.

“I haven’t given up. _Stay._ ”

“But…”

“ _Trust me._ ”

Still tense, Sideswipe kept laying as he had been, irritation blossoming from his spark to Prowl’s. But Prowl ignored him, and instead regained his curiosity as he crawled back up his frame, this time keeping low and right over him. As he moved, he purposely kicked his fans on, blowing warm air over his mate to both tickle and tease at his tactile nodes and keep the cold of the night from bothering him. Sideswipe gradually relaxed, but still frowned and drew one optic ridge up his faceplates.

The silent question was answered as Prowl’s own array port slipped open. He only had to briefly stroke his spike to prime it; it had been seeking to be released from the moment that Sideswipe had wrapped his arms around him. Now, in less than a breem it was inflating and nearly upright and at attention. 

The corner of Sideswipe’s mouth perked up. “About time,” he groaned, one long leg already curling around Prowl’s hip.

“I’m not going to do anything too strenuous to you,” Prowl murmured, resting himself on his elbows and hovering his face right above Sideswipe’s, the tip of his spike poised in front of a valve that was already producing lubricant in eager anticipation. “Ratchet would murder both of us.”

“Would be completely worth it.”

“Not if I harmed you.” One hand cupped the red mech’s cheek. “I’m going to fill you, and then we’ll go slowly, if we move at all. _Sa?_ ”

Sideswipe’s smile grew wider. “I’m not a piece of crystal. I won’t break.”

“But I can exhaust you, and you’ll be stuck in this tent for even longer.”

The translation program didn’t fully understand the word that Sideswipe muttered, which must have been a swear. “Whatever.”

“Sideswipe, we have all the time on Cybertron to go as hard and as fast you want later,” Prowl chided, even as he began to slide his hips forward, making himself known at Sideswipe’s entrance. “And I promise you,” he added, his voice lowering down to a growl, “later, when you are well again, I will frag you hard enough to make your valve ache for _orns._ ”

That was definitely the right answer. 

Sideswipe shivered a little before taking a deep vent of air and bouncing his hips. “Slagger, get in me.”

Prowl snaked a hand behind his mate’s helm, lifting him away from the pillow slightly, and obliged him.

Though he was bigger than the white mech, Sideswipe’s valve fit Prowl snuggly; he’d expressed to the nomad deca-cycles ago that he prefered to use his spike and thus didn’t get much of a chance to widen it. The sensation of tight walls closing around Prowl’s spike heightened his arousal even further, his spike continuing to inflate as it slid home. Instinctively he brought Sideswipe’s head closer to him as they both moaned, prompting Sideswipe to at last ‘free’ his hands and reach up to anchor himself on his mate’s shoulders.

His grip on Prowl suddenly tightened as he slipped even further into his mate. Sideswipe’s own fans clicked on, keeping his system temperature in check as his jaw slid open and he panted.

He started to pump his hips, then whined when Prowl’s answer to the needy motion was to stop moving.

“But--”

“Slow,” Prowl repeated. His fingertips of one hand massaged the back of Sideswipe’s helm as he supported him, and the other traced his jaw. One pair of blue optics stared into the other’s. “You’ll get your overload. I promise.”

Sideswipe gave one last, rebellious thrust upward, impaling himself slightly, yet Prowl was disciplined enough to wait until his mate had growled and hugged his shoulders again before continuing. Prowl kissed his cheek once, silently praising him, then touched their foreheads together and turned off his optics.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he pressed in further. And though Sideswipe was barely using his frame to help anymore, his valve began to cycle and clamp around the spike, trying to drag him in further by itself. 

Prowl had known that the sensation was coming, and though it was not quite as good as his mate bouncing and scrambling and shouting in pleasure, it was sweeter, and quieter, and just what a mech in the middle of a long self-repair would need. Sideswipe, on the other hand, may have never taken such a patient, slow interface with a partner before, if the way he usually liked to overload was what he considered normal, and _surprise/pleasure/curiosity_ radiated through their bond as he considered what they were doing, or rather, what they _weren’t_ doing.

“H-how are you doing that?” the red _yoska_ shivered.

“Doing what?”

“Making my valve--”

“I’m not. Your frame is doing that by itself.”

Without the distraction of the two of them pawing and kissing frantically at each other, Prowl instead focused his sensors on the way that Sideswipe’s folds were stroking his spike, trailing across the shaft and guiding him further and further in, a lover being drawn gradually into an embrace. He sighed happily, then shifted, pressing his face into Sideswipe’s neck as he lowered himself into him.

Sideswipe was starting to understand too how to enjoy this when he was putting very little work into it. His legs twitched open further, inviting Prowl the rest of the way in, his frame doing its best to not thrust and instead let their two arrays work by themselves. Prowl ‘heard’ a short blast of _frustration_ on their bond when his hips met Sideswipe’s thighs and he could proceed no further in, but he continued holding him close, and in a few breems the red mech began to pant again and quiver, despite the lack of stimulation.

“Holy Primus.”

“Mmm.” Prowl briefly kissed at his neck cables. “Keep still. _Trust me?_ ” he asked, switching back to Iaconian.

“ _I trust you._ ”

They lay there on the berth, as comfortable as if they were about to recharge, with the exception that Prowl was buried deep into Sideswipe, and his doorwings fluttered every so often whenever Sideswipe’s valve gave his spike a particularly hard stroke, a quick demand by some deeper line of programming for them to hurry and at least grind at each other. Sideswipe answered these with short mewls, his grip on Prowl’s shoulders tightening, then relaxing. 

The waves of pleasure never grew too strong. There was little encouragement from the rest of either of their frames, which were instead running protocols that were closer to relaxing than interfacing, and it was up to their arrays to do all of the hard work. For a moment Prowl considered that one or both of them would go into recharge, and that would be terribly disappointing to Sideswipe and he would probably never try this again. In fact, if he had to exercise his own patience to not move when he was so far inside of his lover, then Sideswipe was going to start grinding his dentals in a second, or flip them over and finish them off himself.

Yet Sideswipe didn’t complain again, and the only time he squirmed was paired with a soft gasp and spasm whenever his valve tried again to drag Prowl further in, or get him to start pumping against his walls. He stayed under him, clinging to him, his engine changing from the growling, challenging revs to contented purrs, interrupted every so often whenever a wave of _need_ struck them.

They stayed like that for a long while, Sideswipe’s mewling growing louder with each wave.

When they finally did overload it was nowhere near as strong or as cortex-blowing as what Sideswipe liked to reach for, and yet he still let out a long, sensuous moan as his valve and body clamped down around Prowl. Prowl’s answer was to shudder briefly before transfluid washed into Sideswipe’s valve, and now he truly had to fight to not pump into him or risk undoing the peace that had wrapped around them both. Instead he kept holding his mate, wary of aggravating any injuries by jostling him during an overload, and rode through it along with him, his sensors crackling with a sudden awareness of _everything_ about the mech underneath him, his scent, the little sounds he was making, the way he twitched as his valve eagerly drew in the transfluid being offered to him, and then the sensation faded, but the mech did not.

Sideswipe’s systems made an odd noise, and he suddenly went limp in Prowl’s arms.

The white mech immediately laid him all the way back down on the berth, his optics flashing back online as he looked for any sign that the involuntary reboot had been caused by something other than the overload. But Sideswipe came around in less than a breem, groaning and stretching and instinctively reaching up and embracing the mech that he’d just been fragging.

“...Wow,” he croaked.

Prowl smirked. “Have I distracted you well enough yet?”

“...For now.”

The white _yoska_ kissed his lips, and pulled back before Sideswipe could land his own drowsy, sloppy one. “Rest. Your systems were struggling with an overload, even as weak as that was.”

“That wasn’t weak.” Sideswipe paused as Prowl raised an optic ridge at him. “...Okay, it was. And I don't think we’ll do that again unless one of us is low on energy.”

“Agreed. But thank you for trying it anyway.”

Sideswipe nodded. As Prowl slowly pulled out of him, he gasped one more time as the hard-working folds of his valve were exposed to the cold, open air, and he wriggled to turn on his side instead.

“Easy, easy. Shh…”

Blankets were pulled around the red mech once more, Prowl repeating the motions that he’d gone through for the past orns while Sideswipe had been offline and helpless. This time Sideswipe was able to assist somewhat, moving where he needed to go and grabbing his own pillows, but before Prowl could finish tucking him in, he reached over and grabbed the _yoska._

“Stay with me.”

Prowl’s only hesistation was to look around and make sure that he had no other tasks to do before they recharged.

“Always.”

He lowered himself down beside him, then grunted as a long arm curled around him and tugged him to rest against a broad chestplate. Part of the blanket that Prowl had so carefully wrapped around his mate was pulled out and thrown over his back and doorwings.

“You’re repairing too.” Sideswipe’s tone was accusing.

Prowl refreshed his optics, even as he shifted to make himself more comfortable and pillow his helm on Sideswipe’s shoulder. “Your injuries were far worse than mine.”

“So you get to lecture me about needing to rest but won’t do it yourself?”

“I _have_ recharged,” Prowl retorted with a slight huff. “You make an excellent berth when you’re not complaining about it.”

Said ‘berth’ rumbled.

Both of their systems slowed, the everyday sounds of buzzing and whirring deesculating into softer, lighter noises of mechs about to recharge, their bodies cradled around each other. Sideswipe’s optics blinked once, then fizzled and stayed offline, but one hand continued to stroke at Prowl’s doorwing, easing him down until he was ready to follow wherever his mate was going.

“I’m going to go see Iacon tomorrow.”

Prowl yawned. “No, you’re not.”

“I dare you to stop me.”

“I could just by laying my weight on you.”

“Fragger.”

The hand continued to stroke along the seams of his doorwing, and before he fell into recharge, one of the last processes that Prowl remembered his cortex pondering was that even if he were to lose this mech someday, if he was destined to one day be spark-broken and alone, this, all of _this_ would make the pain worthwhile.

He didn’t recall when Sideswipe changed his grasp to hold his mate’s helm closer, and whispered something into his audial. But he did remember the odd, thoughtful look on the red _yoska’s_ faceplates the next morning, before he rolled over and clung to him tightly.


	13. Cow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place not long after the last chapter.

Chapter 13: Cow

He knew the entire herd by each of their scents. Everyone, from the newest calf stumbling around between their carrier’s legs, to the old bulls not doing much better as they shuffled blindly to the nearest tasty crystal patch, all of them held their own scent. If he wanted to find an individual, he sniffed them out, then walked over and brayed in their face to get their attention. All of the noises that he made communicated what he _wanted_ easily enough, which was usually him claiming the crystal patch that they’d been munching on.

But their two-legged companion herd, who were weak, fragile, and entirely dependent on following them around? They vocalized at each other too, but the growls and huffs meant something different. They were _names._

Minotorons didn’t usually get names. There was no need for that. Sometimes the two-leggers purred soothing and encouraging things at them, or snarled or howled at each other, but those weren’t proper names.

The rare Minotoron that got a name had always received it for being special.

Bob liked his name. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but considering the adventure he’d been through while he was separated from the herd and forced to serve angrier, smellier two-leggers, he guessed that it was praise for his tenacity, his strength, and his courage. If he ever met another Minotoron as fantastic as he was, he hoped that they would be called ‘Bob’ too. 

Nobody else in the herd cared that he had a name. He was still the same bull to them, though now a little skinnier; the other two-leggers had done a poor job of finding crystal patches for him, and he wasn’t sure what the point of their existence was if they couldn’t do that. The regular two-leggers, however, had brought the herd to a new place with plenty of crystals and room to roam, and they now called him “Bob” and patted his flank whenever he meandered by.

He was special. He liked that. If the rest of the herd had realized how special he was earlier, maybe he wouldn’t have had to shove them around. 

All he had wanted was a little authority as one of the strongest bulls in their group. The two-leggers had been upset when he’d nearly run down one of their calves, though, and that had started that whole nonsense with him separating from the herd and being picked up by the other two-leggers. He felt bad about that, especially when he’d come home and been welcomed by both his herd and the two-leggers’. But then again, that red two-legger had _named_ him on their way back, and now he was more certain than ever that he was _special._

It occurred to him that he hadn’t seen the red two-legger since the fight before they’d arrived at the place they were now, where strange, long and skinny hills raised up high at the edge of their field, and everything smelled odd, though the crystals were no less delicious. He wondered if that two-legger had lived. Maybe he was with the yellow one that smelled similar; he guessed that the two of them had been raised together as calves.

If being named “Bob” meant he was special, then shouldn’t he be _treated_ as being special too? Life was returning to normal, and normality was not something that a bull as special as he was needed. Or was he no longer special now that the other two-leggers were gone?

He decided to go find the red two-legger and affirm that he was still “Bob,” the most special and best bull in the herd.

He guessed that if the red two-legger was anywhere, he was in one of the mini-caves that the two-leggers liked to build at the edge of their herd. They were clever things, but so flimsy. No Minotoron in his right mind would ever think to live in one. However, the two-leggers did not like Minotorons going near the mini-caves. Whenever one of them tried, they would be shooed away and back to their own herd. Even now a couple of them were watching over the bigger group, dutifully tending to Minotorons with injuries from the fight, as they should as the lesser, secondary herd.

Bob waited until they were preoccupied with another bull who was limping but disliked being touched by smaller creatures, and while they were busy with cooing at him and keeping him calm, they never noticed the other, special bull who could not only roar and charge and trample, but could also tip-toe when needed. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Prowl woke up to Sideswipe groaning and mumbling in annoyance. 

“Your morning breath _stinks,_ Prowl,” he slurred.

“Hmm. Sorry.”

Still, he didn’t move from how he was cuddled up at the bigger mech’s side, his head resting on his shoulder. His mate’s repairs were coming along well, and in a few more orns he could return to light work. Prowl was surprised to find himself disappointed by this, and he concluded that it was because these were the few times that he had Sideswipe all to himself, their time together uninterrupted by anyone who didn’t want to answer to Ratchet for disturbing a mech engaged in major, internal self-repairs. 

...Something _did_ smell.

Sideswipe flinched. “Guh! I thought you got better at kissing, Prowl! Bleh!”

Kissing? From him? When he had still yet to move? He booted up a little faster at that, and onlined his optics.

And, unable to comprehend which noise to make, whether to be to yell, laugh, or shriek, he balked and made no noise at all.

A Minotoron had managed to crawl halfway into their tent, and it was huffing and licking at the side of Sideswipe’s face. And Sideswipe, exhausted by his internal repairs, still had his optics turned off as he grimaced and sleepily batted the Minotoron’s head away.

“Your breath is slagging awful today! Ugh, get off me, fragger. I ain’t doing nothin' with you until you go gargle or something. GAH!” One particularly long lick wrenched his head to the side, and now he onlined his optics, his engine snarling as he turned to give his mate a piece of his mind. “What in the Pit are you--”

He froze, and mimicked Prowl’s expression. 

For a long moment, the two mates stared at their intruder. Some process in the back of Prowl’s cortex helpfully informed him that this Minotoron bull was likely the one that Sideswipe had named ‘Bob,’ the one that had carried him back from the Decepticon camp.

Another process reminded him that he should be guarding his mate.

With a hissed swear, Prowl scrambled up and shoved himself over Sideswipe. But the Minotoron was having none of it. His horns thankfully missed Prowl as he headbutted the white mech aside, tossing him back to the other side of the berth, and he returned to licking and nuzzling Sideswipe instead.

“Hey hey hey hey! Ow! Get off!” Sideswipe flailed at the creature, the blankets getting caught around his limbs as he tried to kick him away, only for Bob to rumble and attempt to crawl even further closer. “Bob! What the frag?! Get out of my tent! Go away! Bob! Shoo!”

Prowl hurried back over, and braced himself on one of Bob’s shoulders so that the Minotoron wouldn’t try to put his weight down on his mate as he flopped a giant head down on his chestplate. “You just had to make friends with one of the largest and unruly bulls in the herd, didn’t you?!”

“This is _my_ fault?! Bad Bob! Bad!” He shoved his muzzle aside before he could lick him again. “Bad Minotoron! How in the Pit is this my fault?!”

“You brought him back to the tribe!”

“Oh, so should I have _not_ escaped from Megatron then?!”

Bob had apparently decided that their tent, specifically their berth, would make a comfortable place to lie down while he sought attention from his favorite Autobot. Prowl quickly got out of the way, but all Sideswipe could do was squawk and frantically push at the Minotoron so that he didn’t get crushed underneath him.

“No Minotorons on the bed! _No Minotorons on the bed!_ Get off, Bob! Bad boy!”

Bob huffed and went back to nuzzling him.

Muffled shouts carried into the tent from somewhere outside. A Minotoron’s aft sticking halfway through the entrance to someone’s tent must have been quite a sight.

“Sideswipe, he can’t stay in here!”

_”No slag, really?!”_

“You brought him back, you befriended him--”

“I didn’t expect that he was going to be such a--BUH!” Sideswipe winced as the long tongue dragged across his face again. “Gross. Buddy, we’ve got to get you some new friends!”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sideswipe clicked his vocalizer and kept looking over his shoulder. 

“Heeere, Minotoron. Good boy, Bob. That’s a good boy. Goooood Minotoron. ”

Prowl was too annoyed and embarrassed to laugh at the sight of Bob’s skinny tail wagging as he allowed himself to be led on by Sideswipe. The red mech was limping along, leaning heavily on Prowl with one arm slung over his shoulder, the other holding a long piece of crystal that he dangled in front of Bob’s muzzle while they walked across the camp and weaved between the tents.

“This is lunacy,” he muttered.

“This is how we get Bob to make some new friends. Unless you like giving up your spot on the berth to a Minotoron.”

Prowl’s response was a grunt. He tried not to look at the small crowd that was following them, the rest of the tribe curious as to why a Minotoron was being led through the camp instead of around it, at risk of trampling anything or anyone in its path. He was never going to hear the end of this.

He swore that he could hear Jazz losing his mind from where he was watching the small parade from Ratchet’s tent.

“And you’re sure it will work?”

“For a little while, yeah.”

“For a little while?!”

“Hey, I’m not the expert on Minotoron psychology!” Sideswipe snapped at him. “That’s, like...everybody here but me and Sunny!”

Bob brayed and moved a little faster, and Sideswipe held the crystal higher before the bull could take it.

“No, net yet, Bob. Not yet. Good boy.”

At last they arrived at their destination. Prowl scowled, already predicting the fallout of this ridiculousness, but it was too late to turn back now. Balancing Sideswipe against his torso with one arm, he used the other to quietly pull back the flap of the tent that was not much bigger than their own.

Sideswipe hushed his voice to not wake the sleeping mechs inside. “Good boy, Bob. Good boy. You want this tasty crystal, don’t you?”

The Minotoron wagged its tail again.

“Goooood boy.” He wiggled the crystal. “Now… _fetch!”_

He tossed the crystal into the tent.

Bob dove inside after it.

The tent rumbled and shook as a creature much larger than a mech rushed into it and shoved against the support frames.

The Minotoron’s aft blocked their view of the chaos happening inside. Amid the surprised yowls and shrieks, Prowl had enough sense to backpedal and pull his mate away from tent before it posed any risk of collapsing. Sideswipe was doing his best to keep his cackling down to muffled snorts, and around them the rest of the tribe that had followed their progress were now staring at the tent with mixed faces of horror and amusement.

“OW!! What the--OW!!”

“Get him off! GET HIM OFF! _Bob?!_ Bob, what are you doing here?!”

Bob let out a new noise: a short, happy ‘Moo!’ that sounded vaguely like a greeting.

“No, get off of me! GEH! BLEH!”

The slurping sounds of someone else being licked by a Minotoron made Prowl’s tanks flip queasily. Sideswipe doubled over as his held-back laughter turned into wheezing.

“Springer, get him _OFF!!”_

“I’m trying! Listen you piece of--Get off of him! No! Off the bed!”

A third, younger voice added to the cacophony, his tone far more gleeful. “It’s Bob!! Good boy, Bob!”

“No, BAD boy, Bob! _Very bad boy!!”_

“Can we keep him?!”

Sunstreaker and Springer shouted at the same time. _”NO!!”_

Bob’s aft, which was sticking out of the entrance, wiggled as he tried to nuzzle something, and his tail wagged back and forth in delight.

“But he came right to our tent! He likes us! We should keep him here!”

“We are _not_ keeping a Minotoron in our--”

“Sideswipe! I know that you’re out there!” Sunstreaker’s screams carried well through the tent walls. “When I get out of here, I am going to _eviscerate_ you! Bob, you’re going to lick my finish right off! STOP IT!! Bad boy! Bad Minotoron!”

Prowl flapped his doorwings irritably, and began to half-lead, half-drag his giggling mate to Ratchet’s tent, the only place he’d be safe from his twin’s wrath as soon as Sunstreaker figured out how to get an overly-friendly Minotoron off of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shizukamiya and Fields_of_Heather inspired this one in the comments section! 
> 
>  
> 
> [Footage of the inside of Sunstreaker's tent.](https://youtu.be/pMDeBjUIucA)


	14. Wolves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place while most of the Autobots are still recovering from the events of The Iacon Prophecy.

Chapter 14: Wolves

Dug into the walls on the city-side of the gates of Iacon was a narrow stairwell leading into a recess near their top, with a small, cleverly-disguised window overlooking the bailey. Within the single room were several chairs, a short chest meant to hold energon rations and not much else, and an odd table that the former city-mechs had called a ‘terminal.’ It was an intriguing but useless device, and made a very poor table with so many bumps over its top, up until Perceptor installed a small crystal inside of it “to act as a substitute power source” and pressed the most prominent button along its front.

And that was how the Autobots learned how to open the gates of Iacon without a Matrix. So long as someone was manned at the terminal, anyway.

After that, at least one mech or femme would always be inside the look-out station, as it came to be named, able to see both sides of the gate and determine when to open and close it. It was unnerving to hear the huge gates creak open again without their Prime and the Matrix of Leadership nearby, especially after all that they’d gone through as the Iacon Prophecy had foretold, but Perceptor assured them that the terminal button was no hidden Matrix power. The gates must have been programmed with an override code to open upon ‘sensing’ a Matrix being opened nearby, instantly granting a Prime access to the city in an emergency, or so he said. The Autobots were slow to accept that this was not some strange magic at work, but eventually grew used to the idea of coming back from scouting or hunting by waving at the hidden window from the bailey, and the mech on duty would open the way home for them, then shut the gates again tightly before they could be followed.

Trailbreaker often found himself assigned to this duty, and he didn’t mind it at all. Part of his spark felt weirdly satisfied to be the guardian of the walls that surrounded his tribe. He was used to being a sentry, and using his thicker armor to place himself between his friends and all that threatened them. This job wasn’t the same, and if they ever were attacked he knew that he’d run downstairs in a spark-beat to assist in the fight, but stopping any assault from reaching the camp in the first place sated that need to keep everyone else safe too.

Then again, his duty had done nothing to help Bluestreak.

Trailbreaker hit the button, then braced himself for the shaking and groaning that rippled up the wall as the gates parted and slowly swung open. His half-empty can of energon rations rattled and danced on the top of the chest next to the terminal, and he ignored it as he braced himself on the window and stuck his head out to observe his friends’ progress out of the dark tunnel and into the bailey.

Hound came first, the best tracker in the tribe, his olfactory sensor already wiggling as he tried to pick up the younger mech’s trail. Next came a grim-faced Chromia, her spear held level with the ground, then Ironhide, and then Jazz.

Trailbreaker shouted down to them, his voice amplified by the walls of the bailey. “You’ve only got a couple of good joors of sunlight left, but I’m staying right here until you get back!”

Ironhide waved a hand to acknowledge him. “I ain’t plannin’ on comin’ back without our little Blue!” He lowered his voice down something barely more than a snarl. “Stupid mech, tryin’ to go huntin’ with only a younglin’ as backup--”

Jazz interrupted him. “The fact that the ones who took ‘em let Hot Rod run off and escape tells me that one of ‘em wanted Bluestreak as a mate. And if that’s the case, they’ll be movin’ him _fast._ Anythin’ yet, Hound?”

A gentle evening breeze lifted at their ponchos and Jazz’s cloak, and Hound lifted his face up to get a good whiff at the air. “...To the south. But if those mechs are natives to the mountains, they’ll know more about the terrain than we do.”

“Then let’s get a move on, shall we?”

Chromia gripped her spear a little tighter. “Let’s make it clear to this other tribe that this is _our_ territory now, and taking one of our mechs _will_ be answered.”

A chorus of “ _Sa”_ s answered her.

As the four _yoska_ started across the bailey and towards the bottleneck that lead out into the rest of the wildlands, Trailbreaker reached for the button that would close the gates behind them, ensuring that no others from the rival tribe would attempt to take one of their own as a mate tonight.

Just before he could touch it, he paused when he heard more shouts from inside the tunnel leading to the gates. Down on the ground, the four _yoska_ turned around to greet the other Autobots running up to join them.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Bluestreak glanced once at the sunset lowering down behind the mountain peaks outside the cave he was sitting in before bowing his head miserably and staring down at the rocky floor.

He’d fragged up well this time.

He’d thought that with the Decepticons driven off that he’d be safe to practice his hunting skills on some of the more unusual creatures that lurked around the mountains. Most of the other Autobots had disagreed, and told him that he would need to wait until more _yoska_ had recovered from the battle and could go with him. So he’d instead told Trailbreaker that he just wanted to practice shooting his bow out in the bailey, and then once he was outside Iacon, he kept going past the bottleneck, despite his friend shouting at him to not stray too far.

As stupid as that was, he’d made an even _worse_ decision by deciding to bring Hot Rod along with him, who had also been antsy to explore not only Iacon, but the mountains beyond. Who was he to deny his young friend when they usually practiced together anyway, making themselves ready for the orn that they would both be acknowledged as _yoska?_

Then again, when the strange mechs had fallen upon them and wrestled Bluestreak to the ground, they’d taken one look at Hot Rod’s diminutive youngling frame and grunted as they made shooing motions, and Hot Rod had sprinted right back to Iacon and had probably told everyone what had happened. Bluestreak doubted that his own cries for help would have reached Trailbreaker as he was tied up and carried away by the strange mechs. But then no one had come for him yet, and the orn was fading away fast.

Now all that he could do from where he sat on the cave’s floor, his wrists tied behind his back and ankles similarly bound, was consider his potential ‘mate’ and the rest of the mechs in his group. Bluestreak had tried to plead with the mech, but the other nomad had only responded in teasing coos in a different wildland language, not close enough to Iaconian for Bluestreak to understand, and with an inflection that struck terror in his spark.

He doubted that their tribe was much bigger than the six skinny mechs before him; all of them looked under-fueled, and their armor was dusty and rusted. Unlike the Autobots, these mechs were just scavengers, not herders and hunters, and there was little to prey on this far into the mountains. Of _course_ they’d stayed hidden when the Autobots and Decepticons had come through. There was only six of them; they didn’t stand a chance against the larger tribes. That was why the _yoska_ had been so cautious about letting anyone wander alone, even with the Decepticon threat gone. They had known that they might not be alone, and Bluestreak had not listened to their advice.

Primus. And now he was going to end up as the mate of some ugly brown mech that kept leering at him from where his group was huddled together and eating their meager rations. It wasn’t as if Bluestreak hadn’t fantasized about one day taking a mate of his own, or being taken himself and wooed by some powerful mech or femme from another tribe. Sure, he’d be dragged away from the Autobots and probably would never return, but he’d build a strong family of his own with his new mate, and he’d heard the oldest members of the tribe talk about what an honor that would be. He’d dreamed about meeting that mate someday and falling in love. 

But this mech?

Bluestreak’s doorwings wilted and he shrank back at the look he was being given by his potential mate, and then his tanks did a flip when the mechs and his friends snickered and chittered at one another in their own language. He couldn’t understand them, but he had no doubt that the mech was bragging about what he’d do with his new mate.

The other Autobots had told him that if he was ever taken as a mate, that mech or femme should be doing what they could to make him feel loved and safe.

Bluestreak did not feel loved or safe.

He highly disapproved of this potential mate. And he also doubted that the mech would do the honorable thing by releasing him if he failed to woo him.

If the Autobots were coming, they wouldn’t find him in the dark. These mechs would make sure of that. But if he didn’t escape _now_ they’d drag him even further away, and then he’d never find his way back to Iacon even if he did free himself. 

Bluestreak pressed his lips together tightly and wriggled as he tested his bonds again. He could show that a scavenger was a poor mate for him if he could escape from him, right? And by Primus, these mechs were _all_ poor mates. They survived on scraps. They couldn’t hunt. The only reason they’d captured him was because they took advantage of him making a terrible mistake. They’d probably never taken someone like him as a mate--

He confirmed that when he managed to get the knot of one of the ropes around his wrists in between his fingertips.

He couldn’t help a quick gasp when he discovered this. None of the Autobot _yoska_ would have made a mistake like that, but these were not _yoska!_ The other mechs abruptly looked towards him, and Bluestreak ducked his head down, mentally scolding himself for nearly giving himself away.

Once they had returned their attentions to each other and their fuel, he frantically picked at the knot, using his poncho and his doorwings to hide what he was doing, his wrists twisting and sawing as he hurried.

It took nearly half a joor, and the other mechs were done with their meal when the cables around his wrists suddenly loosened. The excitement of being nearly halfway to freedom translated into a quick flutter of his doorwings, and he hurriedly lowered them back down. But not before it had gotten his potential mate’s attention and reminded him of his presence.

Bluestreak’s engine squeaked as he looked up and saw the mech stalking towards him with a gleam in his optics. The brown mech mad a purring noise at him, then reached out with a stubby, four-fingered hand (though Bluestreak could see where a fifth finger should have been) and stroked the edge of his doorwing. Bluestreak flapped it once, batting him away, and the mech yelped in pain before chuckling and trying again.

He had to get his ankles free, he had to get his ankles free, he had to run, he had to _run…_

Bluestreak was kicking his bound legs at the mech with a short war-cry before he realized what he was doing. His instincts surprised him, but not as much as his potential mate, who fell hard on his back and wheezed. The _thud_ of his frame hitting the stone floor alerted the other five mechs, who stopped what they were doing and snapped their attention to their prisoner.

Bluestreak flailed his arms to thrust the cables off of them and then pawed frantically at the restraints around his ankles, trying to tug them off as fast as he could.

He’d just found the knot and ripped it apart when they crossed the room and tried to grab him. Before they could touch him Bluestreak flung himself onto his back and kicked out hard like a cornered petro-rabbit, catching one mech in the face and sending him to pile on his potential mate. The next one was quicker and snatched his ankle, but in the process of trying to catch him while Bluestreak was squirming and kicking, he became an anchor long enough for the Autobot to yank his other leg free of the cabling and smash his heel onto the mech’s fingers. With a scream of pain, he let go.

Bluestreak rolled onto his belly, and clawed at the floor, shaking the rest of the cabling off of his limbs and he scrambled for the exit, the last glimmer of the sun beckoning him towards freedom.

Someone grabbed his doorwing. They yanked, and incredible pain rocketed through his spinal struts.

Bluestreak roared, and ignored the pain long enough to twist and smash his fist into the mech’s nasal ridge. The grip on the doorwing loosened.

More hands were on him, searching for something to hold onto.

Bluestreak braced himself on the floor, and pulled back as hard as he could. Warnings popped along his HUD as pieces of his armor were tugged in directions that they weren’t meant to go, but he refused to let himself be trapped again. He managed to break away from half of them, then flapped his doorwings back and forth madly, driving off the rest of them until he could wriggle free and pick himself up off the floor.

He pumped his legs and ran, his spark fluttering in a panic when the sensors on his doorwings sensed that the other mechs were only steps behind him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

In the dark, all of the paths looked alike, and there was no time to double-back if he lost his way. The very real fact that he could be running _away_ from Iacon and destroying any chance of getting back to his tribe further panicked Bluestreak, and although this was lending him an energy and speed to his sprint that he didn’t know he possessed, it wouldn’t last forever. His vents were wheezing, his gears were burning, warning after warning on his HUD told him that he needed to stop and give his frame a chance to rest, but his cortex and spark told him that if he did he’d instantly be captured again, and this time the mechs would give him no chance to escape.

And these mechs knew these mountains better than he did anyway, right?! For all he knew some of them might be charging down a shortcut to intercept him at the end of this valley that he was cutting through. He heard their voices snarling at him, and his potential mate was _far_ too close, right on his heels.

Primus save him, Primus save him, Primus save…

Or better yet--

Autobots!

He heard familiar voices over the strange ones, just on the cliff above, calling his name. He slowed down just long enough to drag fresh air into his vents to fill his vocalizer, and screamed.

“HELP! I’M DOWN HERE! HELP!!”

And that bought the mechs chasing him just enough time to crash into his back. That fresh air was driven right back out of him as Bluestreak hit the ground hard, his front bumper scraping along the rocky ground, several pairs of hands gripping at his arms and wrists and doorwings and dragging him backwards--

His next scream was muffled as a hand from his potiental mate clamped over his mouth, but they were making an awful lot of noise anyway as Bluestreak struggled and dragged his feet on the ground and the other mechs grunted as they tried to bring him back under control.

Had the Autobots heard him?! Were they coming?!

Bluestreak fought with all of his might, but he was quickly becoming overwhelmed. He felt himself shoved back down to his knees.

The mechs were trying to keep him quiet until the Autobots had passed! He whined, and that was about all that escaped past the other mech’s hand.

He didn’t hear the Autobot voices anymore.

He heard--

He heard howls.

His spark danced and bounced around. Then, just as quickly, it froze, at about the same time that his captors stopped moving too.

That...that did not sound like an Autobot howling. It was too short. Too high-pitched.

And no Autobot would snarl like that as they skidded down the side of the cliff. Nor would they be covered in mecha-fur, or be so small, or be growling and--

Bluestreak’s pump briefly stopped.

Those were _cyber-wolves._

Oh scrap, he was so _fragged._

At the same time, the nomad gripping his mouth further earned Bluestreak’s disapproval as a potential mate by shoving the doorwinged mech forward, as if offering him to the cyber-wolves charging at them, and then fleeing with the rest of his companions, no longer concerned with their prisoner at all as they ran for the lives.

All Bluestreak could do was throw himself to the side, hoping that the wolves would be caught up in the excitement of chasing fleeing prey than indulging one that was stopped and helpless. He flung himself onto the ground and into a ball and threw his hands over his neck, knowing what the cyber-wolves would try to rip apart first to disable him, and braced himself--

The cyber-wolves ran right past him.

...The strangely _two-legged_ cyber-wolves ran past.

“Bluestreak!”

Hands were gripping his shoulders. Bluestreak initially flinched, but the hands were gentle this time, pulling him up to rest on another mech’s front, and arms wrapped around him into a protective embrace.

“You’re okay! Thank Primus!”

Not one of the wolves.

_Hound._

Bluestreak didn’t believe it at first. Two-legged cyber-wolves had chased off his kidnappers, and Hound was here, and so was Jazz and Chromia and Ironhide? He didn’t believe his luck had suddenly changed so dramatically.

But they _were_ here. He felt himself being passed to Jazz, then Ironhide, and by the time the big _yoska_ was done hugging him he was now hugging him back, and when he was passed to Chromia he all but sobbed as he clung to her.

“You came! I’m sorry! I-I thought that I could get some hunting done and I told Trailbreaker that I was just going to practice shooting but I wandered too far and those mechs caught me and one of them wanted to be my mate and I thought I was going to never see you again and I--”

“Shh, shh.” A dark blue hand stroked the back of his helm, and the femme nuzzled his chevron. “Easy there, Bluestreak. You’re safe.”

A shriek ripping through the night disagreed with her.

All five of them jolted, then turned to look further down the valley. The cyber-wolves had caught up with their prey, and three of them had leapt on one of the wildland mechs, sending him crashing to the ground and pinning him as they ripped into his armor. Another energon-curdling scream ricocheted along the mountain cliffs as another wolf grabbed a mech’s leg, dragging him down as he clawed into vital energon lines.

Bluestreak had been expecting them to use their serrated dentals, as most cyber-wolves did. But these were using their fingers, which looked oddly like mech’s fingers, or knives grasped in their hands.

His optics widened further as he began to realize who the cyber-wolves really were.

Next to him, Jazz smirked grimly as the ‘wolves’ cut off the cries of the mech that they’d pinned, then shoved the bleeding frame aside as they hurried to chase off the last of the other scavengers. “I’m _really_ glad that they’re on our side.”

Chromia gripped Bluestreak a little tighter. “I’m fairly certain that those other nomads won’t be returning.”

“Good.” Ironhide’s heavier had clapped on Bluestreak’s shoulder. “An’ I’m certain a certain mech ain’t goin’ on any more adventures like that, even after he becomes a _yoska,_ am I right?”

The normally talkative Autobot could only nod dumbly, but then again his optics were on the ‘wolves’ that had abandoned the chase and were trotting back them, chittering to each other in the hissing and growling city-language, not seeming to care that their wolf-pelts were stained with fresh energon. 

For a moment Bluestreak’s cortex conjured the image that these mechs really were wolves, and could hide themselves in the frames of mechs, not the other way around.

...That didn’t frighten him. Not really.

Their leader, the yellow one named Bumblebee, caught the way Bluestreak was staring at him and the energon of the former, potential mate streaked across his faceplates, but instead of being offended he grinned at him and gave him a thumbs-up. Bluestreak had been around the twins and Perceptor long enough to have seen the gesture before and returned it, though shakily.

He found himself still staring at Bumblebee even as the group turned and began to walk back home.

Cyber-wolves pretending to be mechs…

When they returned to Iacon and Bluestreak was safely back in his own tent, he had a different dream that night. And the more he thought about it, the less frightened he was, until by the time he onlined again his dream, and his fantasy of his prefered mate, had changed.


	15. Virus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place _long_ before the events of The Iacon Prophecy, before the twins were employed by Sentinel Prime.

Chapter 15: Virus

Sunstreaker’s first instinct had been to dilate his bond with Sideswipe wide open, but as fear clenched at his spark he instead reversed direction and clamped down hard on it, cutting his twin off from sensing anything other than a wall being slammed down between them. It wasn’t a perfect block. It never was. He could still feel _confusion_ and _worry_ leaking through in response to his panic, but Sideswipe didn’t try to tear at the wall. Not yet.

Sunstreaker knew his twin wouldn’t wait long though. Eventually he’d demand to know what was going on and burst through.

He couldn’t let Sideswipe be exposed to this.

He purposely wrote a corrupted data-burst, its parameters a jumbled mess that would make attachment difficult for any sly and malicious coding, and flung it along their private comm line.

_::VIRUS!!::_

He didn’t wait for a response before turning the comm system off completely, ignoring his HUD’s warning of the dangers of his self-imposed isolation.

He knew that Sideswipe had gotten the message because the feeling of _worry_ suddenly increased on him, but Sideswipe was also wise enough to redouble Sunstreaker’s wall with one of his own. They each braced themselves on their own side. The strength of two mechs purposely blocking their bond and shutting each other out made his spark twist painfully and mourn, demanding to come back in range of its other half again despite the danger of spreading the exposure to its twin, but then it was distracted by an entirely new _pain_ that rocketed around the spark chamber.

Hands were on Sunstreaker as he doubled over with his arms crossed tightly over his chestplate, as if he could guard himself from the assault on his core. He heard someone shouting for help. He felt his frame being lowered to the ground, where he could rest more easily until a medic arrived, or at least the mech kneeling next to him told him so.

His spark fluttered around in a panic, trying to get away from the intruder in its energy field.

He wanted Sideswipe. _He needed Sideswipe._

No, he couldn’t expose him too!

He had to deal with this himself. He’d survive. It wasn’t _that_ bad. Right?

As if in answer, a whole new set of warnings and reports plastered themselves over his HUD, blocking out his vision completely, not that he was looking at the floor that seemed to be on the wrong plane and running vertically next to his head. Did floors do that? Was the other mech kneeling on the wall?

Was the surge of energy being redirected into his spark chamber cooking his processor along the way?!

And that was when his spark decided that it was done with the assault, and it fought back. Sunstreaker had always been a survivor, and his spark was no different. It reared up, snarling, and attacked, destroying what it saw as a threat to its existence. 

But that made Sunstreaker feel no less guilty.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He woke up to smell of cleaning solutions, and not the kind that he liked to purchase for himself when the twins had a credit or two to spare, but instead it was the high-powered solvents that could strip a mech’s paint, with some fragrance that was just as overwhelming as it attempted to mask its scent but instead made it smell like someone had tried to bury a cleaner spill under a truckload of wildland crystals. 

That struck him as odd. Most medical clinics that he knew didn’t bother with fragrances. Some didn’t even have enough for decent cleaning solutions. He heard the beeping of the monitor, and the soft hum of his own systems in repair-mode, but otherwise everything was quiet, unlike the wailing of injured mechs and shouts of medics that he was used to whenever he found himself in one of these places.

This must have been one of those _nice_ clinics.

He onlined his optics and affirmed this. The ceiling had no stains on it. His berth, not a table or gurney, a _berth,_ was free of any materials besides himself, and the monitor that he was hooked up to was in good working order. There was plenty of space to move around when he wanted to get up. Colorful but uninspired pictures adorned the walls, and there was a small pot of wildland crystals on a table to one side of the berth, which he would _never_ see in a medical clinic on the lower levels of Kaon.

He thought that he had the private room to himself, but then he turned his head to the right and saw that he was wrong.

There _was_ only one berth in this room. But there were also several chairs clustered nearby. And flopped on the nearest one, and just coming out of recharge as well, was Sideswipe.

His brother’s presence was an insult to the clean and proper room. He was slouched out uncomfortably, as if he’d been sleeping in the chair for a while. His paint was scratched and marred and peeling at the seams, where Sunstreaker could see splotches of rust trying to take hold, and when his optics flickered back online, they were only at half-power. Sideswipe was likely conserving his energy if he hadn’t refueled since Sunstreaker had last seen him. That had become his default and norm for the last few vorns. But he was also having trouble locating his twin’s berth despite it being to the left of his shoulder, which told him that the energon he _did_ have in his systems was the wrong grade.

He must have just finished a match at the gladiatorial arena. The Pits.

One set of tired optics found the other, and the two halves of their sparks pulsed in both acknowledgement and assurance over their now-open bond, each reminding the other that they were alright. But their optics told a different story.

The golden mech watched the red one groan and stretch all of his limbs, and when he did Sunstreaker immediately spotted the energon staining his knuckles. Not Sideswipe’s own energon, he realized.

“You came straight from the Pits?” Sunstreaker winced at his own garbled vocalizer.

“Mmm? Nah, I was at the bar.” Sideswipe settled back down. “I fought yesterday, remember? Had some extra credits in my subspace pocket after that.”

“Then what’s--?”

“The nurse wouldn’t let me see your chart.”

Sunstreaker refreshed his optics. “Sideswipe. Please don’t punch the medical staff that’s taking care of me.”

“Just the one mech. He deserved it.” Sideswipe sat up, then scootched his chair around so that he could face his twin, scratching up the pristine floor as he went. “So…?”

“So?”

“So, you want to explain how the frag you ended up here?”

Sunstreaker stared at him, and narrowed his optics when Sideswipe stared right back and refused to look away. 

“...I was stupid. I interfaced with a client while I was overcharged. This--” He waved a hand at the room. “This is probably his method of apology.”

“He’s not here.”

“He probably doesn’t want anybody to know about this.”

“And you’re just going to let him hide?” Sideswipe hunched his shoulders, as if he could turn and and add that mech’s energon to his other fist in the next breem. “Who is he?”

“Sideswipe, it was just a mistake--”

“One that nearly killed you!”

“--and it was my fault for deciding to interface overcharged--”

“You normally interface with your clients?”

Sunstreaker’s engine snarled, and his spark hissed at its twin across the bond. “I already was paid for the mural, you piece of slag. It wasn’t like that.”

“Whatever.”

“You’re one to judge, you’re overcharged right _now!”_

_”I just came from the bar!”_

“Then don’t give me slag about enjoying some high grade with a friend!”

Sideswipe pointed at the berth, and then the monitor. “That is _not_ enjoying high grade with a friend. That isn’t even getting to do something fun while you were buzzed! He--”

“He made a mistake, and I did too.”

Sunstreaker shut his optics off so that he wouldn’t have to look at his twin anymore, and turned his head away. Several reports popped up automatically on his HUD, tracking the progress of his repairs and giving him feedback from the monitor, and he tried to focus his attention on that instead of Sideswipe.

Sideswipe made no noise to indicate that he was about to storm out. He didn’t do anything to indicate that he had moved at all.

The room was silent, with the exception of the beeping of the monitor and the humming of their systems. It stayed that way long enough to make Sunstreaker’s plating crawl.

When Sideswipe finally spoke again, his voice was far quieter, and the accusatory tone was gone. “Why did you tell me that it was a virus?”

Sunstreaker’s struts tensed.

Sideswipe had managed to get a hold of a the chart after all.

“You didn’t need to deal with the fallout of it too.”

“I’m your _twin._ The other half of your spark. I knew you were interfacing. I knew when you overloaded, even through the block. Everything after--”

“Was a virus.”

He heard Sideswipe swallow hard.

“Sunny--”

“Sides, it _failed._ I didn’t want it anyway. We were spark-playing, not trying for...that. It only existed for, what? Five breems? Ten? Did you know it was there _then?_ Or when it started to fall apart?”

“I wasn’t really paying attention. All of a sudden you were doubling-down on the block and telling me that you got a virus.”

“That’s all it was.”

He crossed his arms, and curled up.

“It wasn’t anything either he or I wanted, it’s not something you or I could have dealt with, and I’m glad that it’s gone and that I don’t have to deal with it anymore and _I didn’t want you to have to deal with it too--”_

His vocalizer garbled and crackled, and yet Sunstreaker still kept trying to explain himself, even as the chair screeched along the floor again as Sideswipe shoved it away and instead crawled up behind his twin and wrapped his arms around him, even as his babbling became sobbing and he pressed himself into an even tighter ball.

Another spark was pulsing soothingly at him, trying to calm and heal his own. Sideswipe was there, mumbling into his audial and clinging to him tightly, anchoring him to reality. Something about going home. Something about everything being okay.

Everything was _not_ okay.

He knew that he was dragging Sideswipe down with him, despite his brother’s assurances that things would be better, and he finally allowed his spark to writhe and yell and scream at the unfairness of it all--

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Springer pulled back before he could be completely overwhelmed.

His spark chamber snapped closed as he gasped for fresh air, his own spark whirling and writhing in a sympathetic pain at the memories of mech underneath him. His audials picked up another’s spark chamber closing, along with chestplate armor, and he belatedly remembered to do the same to himself before he let his weight fall to one elbow so that he could roll to lay beside Sunstreaker instead.

“I gave you too much.” Sunstreaker’s mumble was a statement, not a question.

Still working to get his ventilations back under control, Springer shook his helm. “No. No. It was necessary for me to understand.”

“I told you that it wasn’t going to be happy.”

“I didn’t expect it to be.” 

One green hand, still warbling slightly, reached out and gently petted the cheek of the golden mech laying beside him on their berth. Springer took a moment to relish in that his mate allowed him to do this when a season ago Sunstreaker would recoil if they brushed shoulders. Now he lay quietly, allowing the soft touch, though he didn’t respond likewise.

Sunstreaker’s shoulders heaved up and down in a long, weary sigh, and his optics flickered. “...And that’s why I don’t want to do this.”

Springer kept it to himself that his mate had trusted him enough to spark-play, and bonding would be the next step after that. But Sunstreaker was drawing a solid line on the ground, and breaching it would shatter what had taken them so long to build between each other. He saw the limit that his mate had declared, and obeyed it.

Mostly.

“I wish I could do more to make you feel safe and loved as my mate,” he breathed, still stroking Sunstreaker’s cheek. 

“It’s not you. It’s--”

“You’re not ready.”

“...I never will be.”

Springer grimaced as he did his best to keep the sense of _failure_ from leaking out of his spark chamber and onto his faceplates. But Sunstreaker picked up on it anyway.

“You did your best for me. But I’ve been with the Autobots long enough to get a better idea of why you all bond so fast. And it _is_ fast,” he said, interrupting Springer’s retort, “at least compared to methods and _reasons_ we do it in the city. Eventually we’d need to kindle a new-spark, right?”

“...I already have Hot Rod.”

Sunstreaker glanced beyond them at the youngling’s empty berth on the other side of their tent. Hot Rod had gone to stay with friends for the night, giving Springer some privacy with his mate. “At least you’re not pretending that you haven’t adopted him anymore.”

“I haven’t,” he grumbled. “I’m trying to say that I don’t _need_ a new-spark. And clearly you don’t want one either.”

The golden mech tensed.

“I don’t want to go through that again.”

“Then we won’t,” Springer tried to soothe him. “And you don’t have to bond with me. I don’t care about that anymore. You’re still my mate regardless.”

One of Sunstreaker’s optic ridges raised up. “What about the tribe?”

“You’re my mate,” he repeated firmly. “I will do anything for you. If that means disregarding the insistence that we bond, I am more than capable of making that point. Sunstreaker, I _do_ want you to stay with me. Not for some deal to keep you near your twin. For _you._ I--”

“Don’t say that you love me. Prowl already did _that_ with Sideswipe.”

“Fine. Do you love _me?”_

That had not been the response that Sunstreaker was expecting at all. His optics opened wide, and Springer had to gather himself to seem not as startled at his mate’s bewilderment. 

Had this really been something that Sunstreaker had not considered?

It took the golden mech a long time to answer, his optics staring first at Springer, than at some point far away, before coming back to him once he’d found his voice again.

“Listen. After the--After everything that I showed you, I stopped taking commissions for long time. I barely even sketched. I threw myself into fighting in the arena with Sideswipe. We stayed side-by-side through the worst of it. It was...it was bad. But we got through it together, until we started picking up mercenary work instead. And even when we were getting a better paycheck, I still couldn’t draw for anybody but myself. I didn’t want to set myself up for a situation where _that_ would happen again. When we were mercenaries, we were paid to do a job, and then left alone. That was fine for me. Or I thought it was.”

He shifted on the berth.

“Eventually I started reconnecting with some of my old clients. I started doing commissions again. Small ones, stuff that I could get done in a few joors. Then one of them offered me a whole lot of credits to paint a mural in their living quarters. I started to realize how depressed I’d been for so long because now I was _happy_ again. This is what I _wanted_ to do. This is what got me excited to get out of my berth each orn. I didn’t want to do mercenary work anymore. I told Sideswipe that I wanted to stop working for Sentinel Prime, and that he should too.”

Springer inferred that these “commissions” were some other word for “trading” when it had to do with Sunstreaker’s drawings. “What did he say?”

“He took one more job while I was gone doing the mural. The orn after I got home was when Bumblebee told me that Prowl had taken him.”

Springer’s tanks churned. “...I’m sorry.”

“Hey, I found him, didn’t I? And as you can see,” Sunstreaker glanced his optics up at the tent walls, “I didn’t stop drawing.” He paused briefly. “...Springer, I’m not telling you all this because I want you to pity me. I’m not looking for anyone’s sympathy. I’m telling you this because...because I’m _comfortable_ with you.”

The green mech stared at him, and Sunstreaker swallowed once, bracing himself before he tried again.

“I _want_ to be here with you. I can’t tell you that I love you because I honestly don’t know if I do. But I am happy here with you. Pit, I don’t even mind helping to take care of Hot Rod. I have my twin nearby, we’re surrounded by mechs who treat us like we’re worth more than scrap, we’re not at risk of deactivation every breem--”

“You haven’t lived in the wildlands long enough if you think that you’re safe at any given time,” Springer chuckled, an arm stretching out to wrap around Sunstreaker as the golden mech moved closer to him. 

“It’s different than in the Pits. I feel _alive_ again.” He pressed his forehelm to Springer’s shoulder, and his vocalizer quieted. “I don’t want to bond with you. I don’t want to risk another sparkling. But I _do_ want to stay with you. I know that’s not a great answer, but--”

“It’s more than enough.” He nuzzled the top of his mate’s helm. “It’s more than enough.”

He felt Sunstreaker’s frame ease, and his own did so similarly, even if there was no bond between them, even if there would _never_ be one. His spark calmed too, and spun happily, banishing away the dark tendrils that had been squeezing at it, his cortex agreeing with it and reminding him that he had _not_ failed his mate.

Sunstreaker was loved, even if he wasn’t ready to say that he loved him back. Sunstreaker was comfortable. Sunstreaker was _happy._

That was plenty enough to make Springer happy too.

Briefly, he tried doing the strange lip-thing to one of Sunstreaker’s headfins that he’d seen Sideswipe do with Prowl, or Perceptor with Drift.

Sunstreaker’s engine sputtered indignantly, and he pulled back to disgusted glare into his face.

“Primus, you’re bad at that. Come here.”

Two gold hands held either side of his green helm, and Springer did his best to follow Sunstreaker’s lead as his mouth descended on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, [greenapplefreak is amazing!!](http://greenapplefreak.deviantart.com/art/cristal-flower-659270799)


	16. Runaway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place shortly after "Scientist," and possibly just before or during the time that Prowl's group comes across the remains of the previous Autobot camp.

Chapter 16: Runaway

The barbarian Seekers who had attacked them appeared once on the horizon on the next orn, and Ironhide and Drift immediately got into position to defend the three Tarnish scientists, but the other group only noted them, growled and hissed, as if daring them for another fight, and then moved on. Perceptor reminded himself of his theory that the Seekers were looking for a specific something, or _someone,_ and whatever or whoever it was had no relation to them. This was further reinforced when they were not bothered again for their entire journey back to the city. There were a few other barbarian clans close to Tarn, but these ones were smaller knots of thieves that preyed on young traders who were too naive to hire bodyguards, and they didn’t dare come close to mechs under the care of two Autobots. 

Wheeljack was suspicious of their luck. Beachcomber was not, or at least not anymore. Perceptor’s opinion fell somewhere between them. 

The Autobots had been nearby with as much of a purpose as the Seekers; their territory was some distance away. His translation program was not advanced enough to ask such a complicated question as what they were doing so far from home, though, and he assumed that their presence this close to a city would forever be a mystery. Instead he enjoyed his good fortune having not only met two friendly nomads, but that Drift was just as intrigued by the city-mech as he was of him and that they two of them were doing their best to communicate on limited translation software.

Ironhide didn’t trust the automated caravan carrying the scientists’ experiments and machinery, and gave it a wide berth as it rolled along behind the group. Sometimes Perceptor, Wheeljack or Beachcomber took a break from walking and climbed aboard it, but both Ironhide and Drift had scoffed at the idea when Perceptor asked them in their own language if they wanted a lift. Yet they showed no signs of tiring as they kept walking through the entire orn, only stopping to rest at night, and even then they recharged in shifts to ensure that there was no risk of an attack under the cover of darkness.

Wheeljack had tried to show Ironhide how they deployed a neutron shield to keep themselves defended at night. The less that could be said about that incident, the better.

Whenever Drift finally rested, he insisted on laying close to Perceptor. The scientist knew enough about nomad culture that his spark fluttered at this, especially when Drift wrapped an arm around him and held him tightly to his chestplate. However, despite clearly fancying him, Drift would do nothing more than cuddle him. And...murmur sweet things in his audial. That was nice.

The possibility that Drift was considering taking him as his mate bounced around his processor. The idea should have frightened him, but it didn't. 

Perceptor couldn’t help but to fantasize about _staying_ in those arms. Such a thing was just silly madness. He was needed back in Tarn. It almost disappointed him that Drift seemed to understand that and did not consider him further.

At last, the tops of the skyscrapers of Tarn came into view on the horizon over the next hill. Wheeljack and Beachcomber visibly relaxed at the sight of their home.

Perceptor did not.

“Beachcomber,” he asked quietly as he walked alongside Drift, having talked with him (or rather, _at_ him, if Wheeljack’s teasing was anything to go by) for most of the last orn, “what will happen to you when we get home? Will you be sent back to the mines?”

Beachcomber let out a long-suffering sigh through his vents as he reconsidered the skyscrapers. “I...I hope not, mech. But I don’t have much hope that I’ll be on another science team again, you know? Not if the city’s pooling everything for a war.”

“It was good to have you with us regardless.” Perceptor tried to smile at him. “You were invaluable in the design of many of these experiments. Your talent is wasted in a mine.”

“Tell that to the city, why don’t you.”

He couldn’t fake the grin for much longer. Drift instantly picked up on his change in attitude, even if he hadn’t translated what was said.

_“You no happy with home?”_ he asked.

Primus, he wished he’d dedicated more time to the translation software. Drift’s voice was flowing smoothly, but the translated grammar was a horrible mess. Perceptor knew his response couldn’t have been much better.

_“Fight soon,”_ he tried in a helpless explanation of global politics.

_“You no fight! No_ yoska.”

“Not with a gun. I mean, I hope not! I mean--” Perceptor stammered before focusing on speaking Iaconian. _“Not with sword. With mind.”_ He tapped the side of his helm.

Drift raised an optic ridge.

Of course he didn’t understand.

...How nice it must be to live out here, under no one’s control. Sure, it was dangerous, and movement would be even _more_ restricted, not less. The nomads could journey far, but didn’t unless they had a good reason to risk their lives. 

But they were free.

Perceptor had long since researched how nomad cultures built their tribes. Some of the tribes made his tanks roll, especially with what was more common near places like Kaon, but many more of them were simply _fascinating._ There was a strong regard for their community, far more than in any city, and especially on their families and ‘mates.’ In a place where life could be snuffed away at any time, it was held preciously. Courtships moved ridiculously fast. Mechs and femmes loved each other with their entire sparks, passionately and sincerely, long before city mechs would even consider--

Perceptor shook his head to derail that train of thought.

If he fantasized about it too much, he might long to stay. And _bond._

...He did want to stay.

Primus above, _how he wanted to stay._

But he couldn’t just uproot everything in his life and leave Tarn forever! He had friends! Work to do!

...Friends that were about to be torn away as Perceptor was locked up in a city-run lab somewhere, and his research narrowed down to creating war machines.

He wanted to stay.

“Perceptor?”

For the second time in less than a breem he shook himself out of his thoughts.

Drift had put a hand on his shoulder. He was studying him, concerned.

It took him another breem for him to realize that everyone else had stopped too when he began to drag his feet through the rust granules littering the worn ground.

Primus, even his _frame_ was reluctant to return to Tarn.

“I’m...I’m fine.” Perceptor cleared his vocalizer. “I’m just…”

“This’ll be a good one if you’re at a loss for words,” Wheeljack snickered. Beachcomber chuckled as well, while Ironhide and Drift looked at one another, neither understanding what the problem was. Pit, _Perceptor_ barely could comprehend it himself.

Might as well put it out there.

“I don’t want to go back to Tarn,” he blurted out.

The humor budding from the other two Tarnish scientists died.

“...Too be honest, neither do I,” Wheeljack said softly. “But what can we do? It’s our home. It’ll get better in a few vorns, you’ll see. This’ll blow over, and--”

“It’s not going to blow over.” Perceptor swept an arm out to his side. “You’ve seen the calculations run on the energon veins, just as I have! We’re not going to last much longer!”

Wheeljack’s vocal indicators weren’t as bright as they glowed again. “That’s why we need another city’s vein--”

“And how many sparks are going to be extinguished for us to annex another city for our own needs?! Why do we need to participate in that?!”

“Well, what do you suggest?! We run away?! We’d be fugitives! Or worse, if we fled to a city that Tarn attacks!”

Beachcomber ducked his head. “He’s right, Percy. We...don’t have a choice.”

“The injustice of this all, it’s...it’s _vile.”_ Perceptor’s hands squeezed into fists, and though he shook, he didn’t move. 

Wheeljack and Beachcomber had a point. Where would he run to? And how would he get there? They didn’t have the resources to keep the caravan running for more than a few more orns. Ironhide and Drift had been incredibly gratuitous in their offer to defend the scientists as they returned to the city, but surely they wouldn’t guard him all the way to a different city. They had their own tribe to attend to, their own lives. He couldn’t ask them to follow him all over the planet while he tried to find someplace safe from the war.

No place would be safe.

He was trapped. The war hadn’t even begun yet, and he was _trapped,_ a prisoner of war in his own city the moment he walked through the gates.

He ran calculations on different routes of escape, but as brilliant as he was, he was no tactician. He was a _scientist._ Determining how to escape the fighting efficiently would take an entirely different set of algorithms from a battle computer that he did not possess.

A hand rubbing Perceptor’s shoulder made him jump.

_“Your home, bad?”_

It was the best that the translation program had to offer, though he knew that Drift was saying so much more. The white mech kept rubbing at his shoulder comfortingly.

Drift wanted to stay too. But he knew better than to make him.

And then--

An idea popped into Perceptor’s cortex. A wild, insane idea.

He must have made quite a face as he processed it, because when he was done, everyone was giving him an odd stare.

Perceptor gulped, then braced himself before turning to face Drift.

_“...Stay with you?”_

Drift’s eyes went huge. Ironhide’s engine let out a surprised rev.

Instantly Perceptor felt bad for the suggestion, and was about to try some damage control when Drift took his other shoulder and held the smaller mech still.

_“You sure? With me?!”_

Perceptor nodded his head once. _“I stay with you,”_ he said again, finding his voice and trying to sound more confident with his decision.

_“Not with Ironhide? He better_ yoska.”

Some of the weight on his spark lifted at even that small joke. Then came right back when he realized that Drift was _not_ joking.

_“With_ you.” Perceptor reached up to clutch his upper arms in return, then, after a moment’s hesitation, stroked his hand along his cheek instead. He wanted to be sure that Drift didn't think that he was being misunderstood, or didn't know what would be expected of him by agreeing to this. _“You good_ yoska. _You good mate. I want you.”_

Primus, he couldn’t believe the words spilling out of his own vocalizer. And neither could Drift, apparently. He looked flattered, intrigued, and shocked all at the same time, and there was something building behind his optics as he took a look at Perceptor again, as if considering him in a different manner, but he was still uncertain.

“Uh...Percy?” Wheeljack cocked his head to the side, not having understood a word of Iaconian. “Percy, what’re you doing?”

Perceptor gulped. Drift had glanced away from him, still pondering something. “...I’m running away.”

“What?!”

Ironhide grumbled something at Drift, and pointed to Perceptor. Perceptor didn’t catch what it was other than it sounded negatory, but Drift held up a finger, begging for the other Autobot to give him a moment.

His optics lit up as some idea sprang to life. The white mech snapped his fingers and grinned broadly.

One of his swords was unsheathed and handed to Perceptor. The scientist gasped at its weight, and nearly dropped it, then fumbled it more when Drift took several quick steps back from him, clearing a space between them.

“Wha--”

_“You have spark of a warrior. Face me!”_

The other sword was unsheathed, and pointed at him.

Immediately Wheeljack and Beachcomber shouted in protest. “Whoa whoa WHOA!! You’re not fighting him, are you?!”

Ironhide seemed just as surprised and unimpressed. But Drift kept smiling at Perceptor anyway. The tip of his own sword flicked up a little, gesturing for for Perceptor to hold his own in defense.

_“Face me!”_

A few seconds of panicked babbling didn’t scare the white nomad away, so Perceptor did as he was told and raised the sword. He was beginning to reevaluate how wise it was to have asked to be the mate of a mech whose culture he didn’t fully understand when Drift let out a roar and rushed at him.

The first swing purposely hit the flat end of the sword. Perceptor had absolutely zero training with melee weapons of such size, but even he saw the opening to deflect Drift’s sword away, and he shoved him off with war cry of his own, or, close to one. It started with a yowl, and ended in a squeak.

Not one of his finest moments.

The second attack was real, though not meant to do harm. Drift suddenly closed the distance between them, and caught his hilt against Perceptor’s. The sword was lifted right out of his hands, and Perceptor scrambled backwards to avoid it as it spun wildly out of control through the air.

Drift caught it in his free hand.

“HA!!”

The white mech cheered, and all that Perceptor could do was stare at him, dumbfounded, as Drift did a quick dance in place with his swords above his head, celebrating his ‘victory’ as if he was a youngling and not a seasoned warrior. It was--

Well, it was adorable. But very confusing.

“...Okaaay.” Beachcomber peered out from where he’d taken cover behind Wheeljack. “What just happened?”

Ironhide wasn’t humored at all. His engine snarled, and he shouted as he pointed at Drift, and then at Perceptor, but Drift just smiled back at him and chattered excitedly. Ironhide flailed his arms.

_“That’s not how it’s done!”_

“That’s not how what’s done…?” Perceptor murmured, until understanding dawned on him. “Oh! OH!! I see! I see!”

“See what?” Wheeljack cocked his head to the side. “Percy?”

“Drift acknowledged that I had a spark of a warrior, at least in his view. It’s part of his culture, if we are both warriors, for him to defeat me in combat first.”

“First? Before what?”

“Before he--AH!”

Drift had pulled him aside, and was now growling at Ironhide, who stopped in his tracks from where he’d been approaching them while pulling a rope out of his subspace pocket. The red Autobot sneered again, and gestured with the rope at Perceptor with a few short, angry words. But Drift shook his head.

Perceptor’s feet left the ground.

“OH! Oh my!”

His view of the world went sideways, and something dug into his belly. It took him a moment to realize that Drift had hefted him over his shoulder.

A few more words were exchanged between the nomads, Ironhide’s grumbling, Drift’s sly. Whatever the white mech had said appeased Ironhide, though, and he put the rope away, but Drift made no indication that he would put Perceptor back down. If anything he adjusted him so that he would rest more comfortably, or as much as one could while dangling off of one’s shoulder, and patted the back of his legs, assuring himself of his weight.

Wheeljack was several levels beyond alarmed now. “Perceptor?!”

“It’s alright!” Perceptor threw up his hands as the two nomads started to walk in the opposite direction of Tarn, Drift with his ‘prisoner’ still over his shoulder. “I’m going back with them!”

“Wait!” Beachcomber jogged a few paces after them before stumbling to a stop. “Wait, Perceptor! Are you--?!”

“He’s chosen me as his mate! It’s fine, really!” He gave the minibot a thumbs-up. “This is their ritual, and I’m going along with it! I’m fine!”

“Doesn’t look fine to me,” Wheeljack hissed before raising his voice. “What am I supposed to tell Tarn?!”

“That I was carried off by barbarians, obviously!”

And with that, he waved them off, trying to shoo his friends from attempting to follow them, all while his pump pounded against his chestplate as he tried to assure himself of what he was dedicating himself to. Or, rather, _who_ he was dedicating himself to.

He’d be lying if he’d said that he wasn’t scared.

But something deeper than his self-preservation protocols was _elated._ Something closer to his spark. 

Something that told Perceptor that he’d made a good choice. If a crazy one.

He slid around to make himself more comfortable, and took a deep ventilation in and out, which must have cued Drift to his anxiety. The nomad purred something at him, something that the incomplete translation program had trouble deciphering, before gently petting his back.

...Scratch that. He understood the gesture just fine.

That _something_ washed over his spark again, and it fluttered in excitement, and for a moment he could pretend that he could understand the nomads’ mating rituals better than he actually did. Perhaps this was how he was supposed to be feeling if he actually _was_ another nomad?!

Excitement did battle with the fear of the unknown, and before Tarn had disappeared from view again, one of them had shoved out the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am STILL using a bluetooth keyboard connected to my phone. *heavy sigh*


	17. Flirt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of help from BalloonArcade on this one!
> 
> Takes place sometime after 'Wolves', after Sideswipe had completely recovered.

Chapter 17: Flirt

Springer and Hot Rod were both gone for a few joors, one to explore the ruins of the city and the other to tend to his chores with the Minotoron herd, and Sunstreaker was enjoying the peace of the empty tent and mending his cloak when the entrance flap was abruptly yanked back. The golden mech lifted his helm, and then did a double-take, his optics flickering as he reset them several times.

Prowl was completely drenched with water. His shoulder-wrap and waist-cloth were saturated by what fluid wasn’t dribbling off of his armor, as if he’d been wandering around outside during the middle of a storm, and he looked just as miserable as if that had been true. But that couldn't be right. Today was a sunny and beautiful day.

The black-and-white Autobot let himself inside, his joints squelching with each movement, and plopped himself down on the closest rug to where Sunstreaker was sitting, water still dripping off of the edges of his lowered doorwings. Sunstreaker wrinkled his nose, but Prowl was already speaking before he could protest.

"I don't understand. Does your twin hate me now?"

...Ah.

Sunstreaker looked the other mech up and down, and found no damage. He was just _wet._

"It’s the opposite. That's his way of saying he likes you. He enjoys getting mechs riled up.” 

He returned to the cloak, and frowned at a stain that was marring the bottom edge. How was he going to lift that without decent chemicals? Maybe Tracks would know. Thank Primus _somebody_ in camp took their appearance as seriously as Sunstreaker did. For all their concern with keeping parts of their frames hidden by clothing, he would have thought more Autobots would take pride in what the rest of the world _did_ see.

"He wasn’t like this before,” Prowl continued. “He loved to tease and joke when he could, but never to this extreme.”

"He was scared," Sunstreaker replied cooly, narrowing his optics as he recalled when Sideswipe had taken by the Autobots almost a vorn ago. When he’d been taken by _this_ mech. "Now he's comfortable with the tribe. He knows you won't be truly angry with him. Just really, REALLY annoyed."

Prowl flicked his doorwings, and droplets of water splattered on the ground behind him. "So, this is normal?"

"One-hundred percent normal. And one-hundred percent Sideswipe. I don't know of anybody else who enjoys toying with mechs as much as he does."

The white mech grimaced, then let out a long-suffering sigh. Sunstreaker lifted an eye ridge at him.

"If you don't like my brother, then maybe you shouldn't have bonded your spark to him."

"I love him," Prowl immediately snapped. "I just...I am still learning about him."

Sunstreaker snorted.

"Whatever."

“You still doubt us, even now?”

“And always will. You _dragged_ him here. You tricked him into bonding. Whatever you have between you two, it’s nothing like what either of us would ever see or _accept_ back in Kaon.”

“I love him,” Prowl repeated. “And I know that he loves me too, and so do you. Whether you approve of us or not won’t change that he is now my mate and bonded to me.”

Sunstreaker whistled, then chuckled darkly. “Why don’t you tell that to Sideswipe and see what happens, if you’re so bent on learning more about the mech that you’re _bonded_ to?”

“...I’ve already made that mistake, thank you very much.”

“And yet he still loves you. By the Pits, he’s pulled off some dumb slag, but falling in love with you was the _dumbest_ thing that he’s done yet.”

“...What else has he done?”

The golden mech rolled his optics.

“You really think that he loves you?”

“I _know_ that he does, just as well as you do.”

“Then be ready for some, uh… _creative_ ways for him to try to get your attention. Setting up a water bucket above the door...or the tent flap?...above the _entrance_ is the oldest trick there is. That was just him testing out how far he can push you.”

“It wasn’t above an entrance, it was dangling on the center post over our berth--wait.” Prowl’s optics widened. “This is just for _attention?!”_

Sunstreaker laughed again, and this time it was more sincere, though not for Prowl’s benefit.

“You really don’t know him at all, do you?”

Prowl’s lips pressed into a tight line.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sideswipe didn’t even wait an orn before striking again.

Hot Rod had come back from his chores with one of his fingers bent; he’d gotten it caught in the bindings he was using on an injured Minotoron’s leg. The damage was small enough that Sunstreaker could fix it himself instead of going to Ratchet, and he and the youngling were sitting outside and enjoying the warm sun while he repaired the delicate wiring in the youngling’s hand when they both suddenly jerked up at a _splat_ nearby, followed by a horrified, outraged yowl.

_“Sideswipe!!”_

Prowl ran by, wiping off the pile of Primus-Knew-What that had been lopped at him as he chased down his assailant, who was whooping as he sprinted away.

Hot Rod looked alarmed, but Sunstreaker just huffed and held Hot Rod’s hand still as he returned to work.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It had now been happening at least twice an orn for the past deca-cycle.

Bluestreak commonly scribbled down notes about the Minotoron herd onto scrap pieces of hide when he went to Prowl with a report, and the two of them were discussing something he’d written down, and all Sunstreaker had been doing was simply walking by when he happened to see his twin coming down the throughway from the opposite direction.

The red and gold mechs locked optics briefly, their sparks pulsing in the barest of automatic greetings.

Sideswipe glanced at the two other Autobots, grinned, and Sunstreaker groaned.

Their two paths separated, Sunstreaker walking further away from Prowl and Bluestreak, while Sideswipe came closer, though not _at_ them, as if he was only going to turn around the next corner. Prowl’s optics flicked up when he sensed his mate nearby, likely receiving a similar pulse to what Sunstreaker had just gotten, and Sideswipe waved a hand, acknowledging him but not wanting to interrupt.

Prowl made the mistake of turning back to Bluestreak.

Sideswipe kept walking along leisurely, up until he was right behind Prowl, and his pace slowed only a little as he struck and then hurried away.

Bluestreak stumbled back as Prowl _yelped_ and jumped to the front of his peds, his doorwings snapping straight up and quivering, like he was about to take flight.

He settled down just as fast, and cleared his vocalizer with a murmured apology, then continued with what he’d been saying, as if nothing had happened, though Bluestreak’s optics were still huge.

_Mischief_ and _satisfaction_ ebbed from Sideswipe’s end of the bond as he left Sunstreaker’s line of sight.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“He thinks that you’re being cruel to him.”

Sideswipe flicked a pellet of energon into the air and caught it in his mouth on the way down. “He likes it.”

“Hmm.”

The twins were coming back from a patrol, and the two of them were eating and walking, not having the time to refuel while they were climbing around the mountains outside of Iacon’s walls, looking for any scavengers that had gotten too close to the now-occupied city. As they passed through the first circle of tents, Sideswipe flicked another pellet up, then side-stepped to snap his dentals at it before it could hit the ground.

Sunstreaker chewed his own rations at a more leisurely pace. “He hasn’t known you long enough to know that being stupid is your default setting. He came to me for advice about you a while ago.”

This time Sideswipe lost the pellet when he snapped his helm back to his brother, and it bounced off his audial horn. “Wait, what?! Why??”

“Because who knows you better than me?”

“No one,” Sideswipe replied automatically before leaning towards him. “What did you tell him?”

“That you’ve been an idiot for as long as I’ve known you, which would be all of our lives, and that he wouldn’t be questioning that fact if he’d known you at all.”

“He and I haven’t been bonded for very long, relatively.”

“You haven’t _known_ each other that long.”

“So what are we supposed to do now? Start dating? I guess that I could take him to a nice bar.” Sideswipe jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the ruined downtown area. “Think I spotted one on the other side of the river. A bunch of turbo foxes made a den in there, so it’s got to be decent.”

“Oh, ha, ha. Seriously though, Sideswipe. I’m just watching your back. You’re head-over-aft for this mech, and everybody was telling you that this whole fast-bonding slag was normal until I found you. I want to make sure that he’s--”

“He trusts me, he respects me, and he loves me. And it’s a little late to ask him to take it slow.”

He went back to munching on his rations, and the two of them walked quietly for a while as they headed deeper into the camp. Sunstreaker didn’t ignore the pulses of _anxiety_ that were now coming from his brother though, and spoke again.

“I thought more on what you said before. I still don’t get why you’re asking _me_ for permission. It’s not like I’m--”

“It’s close enough to involve you too.” Sideswipe lowered his voice after looking around once and moving closer to the golden mech so that they wouldn’t be easily overheard. “Are you sure that you’re okay with this?”

“I’m not going to tell you that I am because we both know that I’ll be lying. But that doesn’t matter.”

“It _does_ matter. You matter, more than anyone else in this universe. Even more than Prowl.”

“And so do you to me. But I’m not going to compete with Prowl. I know I’ve got your back no matter what, and you have mine. You and him are something completely different.” He vented once. “What if I said ‘no’? Would that really hold you back?”

_“Yes._ After I found out that we were bonded, and I let him know how much I was _not_ okay with it, Prowl swore that he wouldn’t push me into anything I didn’t want ever again. He’s taking that promise seriously. I know that he wants to ask, but he won’t until I mention it first, and if you don’t want me to, then I won’t. We’ll never talk about it again.”

“...You’re serious.”

“I am.” Sideswipe stared at his brother’s optics. “I mean it. I won’t do it if it’ll hurt you.”

“Sideswipe?”

“Yeah?”

“Have I ever told you how much of an _idiot_ you are?” Sunstreaker subspaced his ration can. “I have Springer and Hot Rod. I have you close by. We’re both safe, and we’ve got a tribe that gives a frag about us. I will be _fine._ Do what makes you both happy.”

Sideswipe’s can disappeared as well. “...Wouldn’t be worth it if you weren’t too.”

“As long as it doesn’t involve throwing yourself off the nearest cliff, I really couldn’t care less what you two do.” Sunstreaker wiggled his fingers behind his back at something his brother hadn’t noticed before halting and grabbing Sideswipe’s shoulder. “But _really,_ you need to cool it with all these jokes and pranks on Prowl. The mech doesn’t understand what you’re doing. For all he knows, he’s bonded to a sadist.”

Sideswipe made a face. “It’s not like he’s completely devoid of a funny strut in his frame!”

Sunstreaker cocked an eye ridge.

“...I’m not lying!” Sideswipe protested, flailing his arms slightly, his poncho billowing around his shoulders as he did. “You’ve got to work the laughter out of him, and when it’s done right, he’s _great!_ Also, he’s got the best reactions to things not going his way. He’s almost as funny as Ratchet when he gets mad.”

“Which, by the way, you need to dial that back too. I went to the healers’ tent with a twisted knee the other day and with the way that he was going on, you would have thought _I_ was the one who replaced all his tools with rocks and twigs the other orn.”

“I kept them safe while he was looking for them! And I gave them back!”

“Eventually.”

“Eventually!”

“Also, when are you going to get a cloak like mine again?” Sunstreaker’s other hand flicked the edge of his brother’s poncho. “We don’t look like twins anymore. I look like me, and you look like one of _them.”_

Sideswipe shrugged. “Jazz got both of ours from a different tribe in the old territory. It’s a long walk back there just to get a nice cloak, you know? Not worth it right now.”

“As soon as we get some sort of a trading route started again, I’m sending him back.”

“You know, I was thinking about helping him out with slag like that. I speak both Standard and Iaconian, and I worked at Kaon’s docks long enough to pick up a few--”

Sideswipe froze when Sunstreaker snatched both of his shoulders, holding him tightly still. Instinct told him that his twin would move him out of whatever danger he’d just spotted.

...If there had been a danger.

Prowl’s hand was not dangerous.

Though Sideswipe did _shriek_ and nearly rocket straight up into the air, startling everyone around them, and if Sunstreaker hadn’t been holding him still, he probably would have immediately retaliated against the hand on his aft.

Instead, all that the red mech could do was squirm and snap his helm to the side to stare at where Prowl was quickly walking away while studying a piece of hide, as if nothing was amiss. It was such a natural habit for him that those who had jumped when Sideswipe had cried out paid the white mech no attention and were now glaring at _Sideswipe,_ blaming him for disturbing the peace.

“...You son of a glitch, Sunny,” Sideswipe breathed, optics round and wide. “You set that up.”

“I told you, do what makes you happy.” Sunstreaker released him. “And keep me out of it.”

Anything further was lost as Sideswipe’s priorities swept to his slowly-escaping mate instead. Immediately he was stalking after him, an evil glint in his optic, his hands extended to either side and his fingers wiggling.

Prowl didn’t look over his shoulder at Sideswipe’s approach before increasing his pace to a fast walk, still reading the very interesting piece of scrap hide in his hands. Sideswipe walked faster as well.

They passed a tent. On the other side, Prowl had accelerated into a light jog. So did Sideswipe.

After the next tent, they were both running, Prowl somehow still reading the scrap hide at his high rate of speed. He only subspaced it when the chase became a full-on sprint and he needed to pump his arms.

Sideswipe’s end of the bond narrowed.

Sunstreaker noticed how their path was taking them back to their own tent, and he shook his head. “A pair of petro-rabbits is what they are,” he muttered to himself, before pausing when his audials noticed another pair of feet creeping up behind him.

...Oh. 

Well, to the rest of the camp, this _was_ starting to look like a normal mating ritual for city-mechs.

Sunstreaker kept staring straight ahead as he snarled. “Try it, and I’ll rip your arm off.”

The footsteps instantly stopped, and Springer made a deflated noise from his engine. 

Sunstreaker’s engine simmered down from a threatening growl to a low grumble, and he crossed his arms as he scowled at nothing in particular, but neither mech moved. The golden mech felt optics staring at his back, and he hunched his shoulders, his cortex dueling with the want to tell Springer off for trying behave like his idiot brother and mate, and the quiet _intrigue_ that someone besides Sideswipe was daring to get so close to him.

His relationship with Springer was entirely different than Sideswipe’s passionate, chaotic bond with Prowl. The two of them still danced around each other’s edges, unwilling to wade too deep and push their boundaries too far. It was still closer than what Sunstreaker had allowed of any relationship in vorns, and where they were suited him just fine.

...Most of the time.

...Maybe, if he wanted to be just as happy, he should take a cue from his twin. 

Even narrowed, the short burst of _delight_ through Sideswipe's end of the bond settled the issue.

Without another word, he turned and took Springer’s hand, and the green mech was cheeky enough to look pleased with himself as he let his mate lead him back to their tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What on Earth could the twins have discussed, I wonder. ;)
> 
> Also, [video footage of Springer sneaking up on Sunstreaker.](https://youtu.be/KfTLtkgjQwM)


	18. Star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place not very long after Sunstreaker asks Sideswipe "Why are you asking me for permission?"

Chapter 18: Star

Every so often Sideswipe would suddenly cackle nervously, and whenever Prowl asked him why, he’d tell him that he’d never expected to be lying in the middle of a six-lane elevated highway and not risk being hit by a transport.

Whatever that meant.

His red mate had insisted on climbing the dilapidated buildings that were once a vital part of the city of Iacon, and as the evening darkened to night he found what he was looking for and led Prowl up to what the nomad had identified as a bridge that seemed to cross nothing in particular. The road was certainly a “way” that was “high,” and so the name at least made sense, even if Sideswipe was having trouble explaining the reason for its existence. They found an open patch of ground with a clear view of the stars that were twinkling above them, and then laid down on their backs.

They’d been there for joors, and had no intention of leaving anytime soon.

Sideswipe pointed one black finger at a collection of stars hovering just above the top of the walls of Iacon, their new horizon whenever they were inside of the city. “So if you connect those ones there, there, and there, they form a circle, and then there’s this box around them that becomes--”

“The Matrix of Leadership.” Prowl’s helm was pillowed on Sideswipe’s other arm and shoulder as he gazed up at the ‘constellation.’ “So that’s how you knew what the image on the gates meant.”

“Yup.” Sideswipe grinned to himself. “And to think that Sunny used to make fun of me for trying to stargaze through the smog back in Kaon. Turned out it was useful for something after all.”

“Is it unusual for city-mechs to make pictures from the stars?”

“...Kinda? I don’t know about the other cities, but we couldn’t see them that well in Kaon. I knew about the constellations because there’s loads of data about them in the Archives.”

“You’ve mentioned the Archives before. That’s where the Iacon Prophecy was as well.”

Sideswipe made a rude noise with his engine. “Don’t get it in your cortex that I was there often. Not my kind of place. Lots of old, stuffy mechs running the place, and anybody from higher educated castes always thought I was there to make a delivery or something. I just liked copying down star maps, then picking out constellations when I got home.”

He waved his hand at the sky, and the band of clustered stars streaming across it.

“It’s, like...I know there’s plenty more out there. We wouldn’t have so much data in the Archives if Cybertronians had never gotten off of the planet. Some of those stars aren’t just stars, they’re suns. They could have other _worlds._ We think Cybertron’s big, but we’re just, like, barely _anything_ in the grand scheme of things.”

Prowl snuggled closer to his mate. “Did your Archives say anything about when the other moon will fall down?” he asked, trying not to sound as alarmed by how plausible that idea was now that he’d seen a moon resting on Cybertron’s surface.

“What? Slag, I don’t even know why _that_ one back there fell down. Ain’t nothing about it, other than that it used to be up in the sky and now it isn’t. Or at least from from what I read. Again, the Archives wasn’t my type of place.”

“Considering how much it has helped us, including giving Sunstreaker a map to guide us to Iacon--”

“He was just trying to get pictures of landscapes for a job!”

“--maybe we should find something like them. We could learn more about Iacon. About our _home.”_

Sideswipe didn’t answer him. His optics stayed on the sky, pondering slow dances of the stars high above them.

Prowl pressed his lips together as he tried to hide a deep ventilation from his mate.

...He wanted to ask. But he was afraid of what Sideswipe’s answer might be.

It had been a long time since he’d felt the inferno of _hate_ burn through their bond, but he hadn’t forgotten it, nor the terrified look in Sideswipe’s optics when he’d tried to deny the bond’s existence, nor the rageful sneer as his far more powerful spark threatened to tear Prowl’s apart. And that had been all _his_ fault for being such a poor mate to Sideswipe. Sideswipe would not have forgotten Prowl’s failures either. He could return to hating him again at any time.

Sideswipe had told him to never force him down a path he did not want to choose ever again.

And so, he did not ask. 

But maybe he’d stepped over that line by reminding Sideswipe that Iacon was now their _home._ He’d somehow asked it anyway.

Despite all they’d been through, the red mech was under no obligation to stay with his mate any longer. Prowl’s original reasons for claiming Sideswipe as his mate and taking him from his caravan were gone. The Decepticons had been beaten off. The Iacon Prophecy had been fulfilled. He was safe now. 

It would twist and tear at Prowl’s spark if the mech who he was now _bonded_ to wanted to return to the city, but he’d already affirmed to himself that no power on Cybertron could keep Sideswipe at his side if the red mech wanted to leave. Such was the city’s way. Such was _Sideswipe’s_ way.

What would Prowl do if that happened?!

The thought of that was--

“Shh. It’s okay.”

The arm he’d been resting on shifted to instead curl around him, pressing him close to the other mech’s warm frame. Prowl startled, not realizing how long they’d been lying there in an uncomfortable silence, then gave in and hugged his mate as the other red arm wrapped around him as well.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sideswipe murmured quietly into his audial, his hand stroking his back between his doorwings. “I love it here. I love our tribe. I love _you._ It’s okay. Calm down.”

Prowl snuggled his face into the collar of Sideswipe’s poncho, just at the base of his neck. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to our sparks broadcasting to one another,” he murmured.

At that, Sideswipe made sure that an entirely different feeling than Prowl’s _doubt_ and _worry_ flooded those more painful sensations away. Prowl felt his own spark leap up and glow inside of its casing, only to settle right back down as his frame relaxed into his mate’s embrace.

Primus, he loved this mech.

And Sideswipe loved _him._

He’d been assured of that for quite a while now. But the reminder always made his spark flutter for some reason. 

He’d thought he’d already had him when they’d bonded, because that’s how he’d always been taught that it would work, with their bond and love strengthening as time went on. Sideswipe had a habit of turning everything he knew on its head, as was his way.

Prowl smiled gratefully, and knew that his own spark must have been broadcasting to Sideswipe as well, because the larger mech rolled over slightly to cradle him and rest his chin on the top of his helm.

Both of them were quiet again. But this time it was not from a fear of speaking. It was both of them embracing the _peace._

The stars continued their journeys across the sky. Sideswipe’s head was turned slightly, watching them, and Prowl flicked his optics upwards as well.

The Matrix of Leadership had begun to dip out of sight when Sideswipe finally spoke again.

“Do you still want me, even though I might deactivate someday?”

Prowl stiffened.

Sideswipe had apparently been more alert while he was recovering from the battle for Iacon than his mate had thought. How much had he heard when he poured out his spark to his mate while deep in self-repair?!

“...We’ll _all_ deactivate someday.”

“Yeah, but I may before everybody else. I don’t exactly walk on the safest side of a busy roadway, you know?”

“I know.” He didn’t really, but he understood Sideswipe’s meaning well enough.

“So, do you still want me? A mate that doesn’t know jack about being in a tribe, who’s a prime target for Decepticons, and will probably meet his end at a mauling by a rabid turbo fox because he didn’t know what it was?”

Prowl chuckled. “I’ll teach you which turbo foxes to stay away from. And yes, I want you. I love you.”

“So you’ve told me. But I wanted to be sure that you’re ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“For me to keep that promise we made.”

At first, Prowl didn’t think that he’d heard him right. He kept staring up at the night sky. 

Far more slowly than how his processor normally ran, he put the pieces together, and his frame and doorwings went rigid.

“...Sideswipe…?”

“I’m ready.”

A black hand touched Prowl’s cheek, and turned his gaze towards a second pair of blue optics, ones that could be teasing, playful, and always _were,_ but right now there was no chance that Sideswipe was joking. Not about this. 

“If you want a sparkling, then I’ll try to give you one.”

Prowl refreshed his optics several times at him.

“You’re certain?”

His spark was fluttering all over the place, dancing and twirling and _shouting_ in excitement, and yet all he could was lay in Sideswipe’s arms, shocked, as his mate nodded and leaned over to press their forehelms together.

“Yeah. Yeah, I am. _Sa.”_

Primus, they were going to try for a sparkling, they were going to try for a _sparkling_...!!

Prowl suddenly tumbled over to grab and cling at his mate’s frame, making Sideswipe grunt in surprise at his weight.

“Easy, easy!”

The warning ended with a laugh, though, and the broadcasted feelings coming from their bond was _wonderful,_ and Prowl wasn’t sure if they were entirely all from Sideswipe or if some of them were a reflection of his own, and he knew that he must have looked so foolish to be hugging him so tightly, and yet he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

He’d been convincing himself breems ago that he _might_ be able to survive without Sideswipe, and now they were agreeing to try for a _sparkling!!_

Sideswipe held up a finger. “Just a heads-up, Prowl? I ain’t got a clue about what I’m doing. Outside of interfacing and spark-playing until something ignites between are sparks, I mean.”

“I’ve seen you take care of other’s younglings, especially Springer’s. You’d do fine.”

“No, I mean...Yeah, that’s going to be something that I got to get better at before we have our own sparkling, but…”

He gulped.

“...Where in the Pit are we going to find somebody to manufacture a protoform?”

...Manufacture…?

Prowl released his grip on Sideswipe so that they both could sit up and face one another.

“You don’t...you don’t _mold_ a sparkling’s frame together,” Prowl stammered, imagining scraping together a protoform from a piece of crystal, like it was a staff or a knife. Was that how Sideswipe thought that sparklings were created?! “We ignite the spark, one of us carries it in our spark chamber--”

“I know that much,” Sideswipe grumbled.

“--and will also develop a protoform within them.” He placed a hand over his abdomen.

Sideswipe stared at him for a second before his optics refreshed and then _bulged._

“Hold up! Hold up! Fraggit.” He waved his hands around. “Slag, I should have seen that coming. You Autobots still do it the old-fashioned way! Duh! I’m so stupid.”

...Old-fashioned?

Prowl felt his spark drop.

Sideswipe looked _disgusted._

The elation of the promise of a sparkling was slamming to a halt and vanishing when Sideswipe took a second look at Prowl’s drooping doorwings, swore, and then grabbed the white mech’s shoulders.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” A palm cupped his cheek. “We can do it that way. You and Ratchet...you’re going to have to explain some things to me, because it’s been a _long_ time since I heard of anyone building a sparkling’s protoform like that. Usually creators put in a work-order to an expert, and they--”

“Your cities have _someone else_ create a sparkling’s protoform?!” Prowl cried out, feeling like he would purge as his tanks flipped.

_Sideswipe thought that a stranger would build a protoform?!_

“Yeah! But it’s...No, it’s okay, it’s okay!” The reassuring pulses across their bond attempted to drown out the _shock_ that was tearing through the white mech. “Alright, so that’s clearly _not_ the way that you guys do it things. It’s okay. I’m not against doing it the old way, I just don’t know _how_ it’s done.”

“Having a stranger build your sparkling sounds _monsterous._ ” Prowl shuddered. “How can you feel like it’s really _yours_ if someone else made it?!”

“I don’t know, I’ve never had one!”

Sideswipe’s hands scrambled around him, pulling him back into a hug, doing his best to reclaim the happy moment that was evaporating.

“We’re having a sparkling,” he said firmly, gripping Prowl even tighter. “We’ll do it the old way. It’s fine.”

“But how would you, if you were still back in Kaon--?!”

“Don’t think about that, okay? That’s not what’ll happen. I’ll do it _your_ way.”

Prowl cycled his fans to try to cool himself down and reject the imagery that filled his mind. A stranger, putting together someone else’s sparkling. The practice sounded so _barbaric._

...But still…

“It’s not what you know, Sideswipe.”

“Then it’ll be something that I’ll _learn._ I didn’t suddenly decide that I wanted to have a sparkling with you just now, Prowl. I’ve been sitting on this for a long time. I didn’t know if I wanted it or not, if I’d be any good, or if I’d even live long enough to see it. I even talked about it with Sunstreaker first. I’m certain, one-hundred percent, that I want this sparkling. So if you want to do this the old way, then fraggit all, we’ll do it that way. This is happening, Prowl. I want it.”

Prowl’s spark tried to fly out from the sludge of revulsion that was dragging it down. 

Sideswipe wasn’t going to ask that a stranger make their sparkling. Everything would be fine.

His mate was rocking him. “Hey. _Hey._ You tell me what I need to do to give you a sparkling, and I’ll do it. Okay?”

“... _Sa.”_

He took a deep ventilation in and out.

“We should ensure that I’ll be the one carrying it, then,” he mumbled dryly.

Sideswipe’s chuckle rumbled through both of them.

“Good idea.”

It took Prowl a moment more to banish away the rest of the thoughts of how sparklings were created in the cities. Sideswipe kept holding him, quietly assuring him in words and by their bond that he would not ask for that method, and when he was satisfied, Prowl leaned up and briefly kissed his lips.

“I’ll carry. You won’t have to do anything for building a protoform except to interface with me.”

Sideswipe’s eye ridges shot straight up. “I can do that!”

“...We should still talk to Ratchet. And Perceptor.” Prowl tucked his head against Sideswipe’s shoulder again. “I can’t believe you don’t _know_ how to make a sparkling.”

“Wasn’t something I ever thought that I needed. Just, uh--”

“We can make sure that _I’m_ the one carrying.”

What a time to explain what most nomads older than a youngling already knew. He would have to go further once Ratchet was sitting nearby, but for now, Prowl wiggled his hand as he tried to pull together a good answer for Sideswipe.

“Ignition of a spark requires transfluid. If your systems don’t detect transfluid from an interface, and thus there were no nutrients to build a protoform, no spark will ignite. It would be a nice merge, but your spark has no materials to build something new.”

Sideswipe cocked his head to the side. “...Really? That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“We can make sure that you’re carrying, and not me--”

“By making sure that I’m the only one being spiked during interfaces. _Sa.”_

The red mech refreshed his optics.

“That’s really all we have to do.”

“Other mates purposely choose the carrier all the time this way. It works.”

“...You’re still going to have to explain what you’re doing on _your_ side. I don’t want to hurt you by accident.”

Prowl lifted his head up. “You haven’t harmed me by spiking me yet. I highly doubt you will now.”

Sideswipe’s systems hummed.

“So, next question then…”

“ _Sa?”_

“When do we start?”

The lights behind Sideswipe’s optics were changing, and Prowl noted to himself for later how he would both _see_ the mischief building within his mate and feel it in his spark. He would have to remember that for when Sideswipe was bored and up to no good.

But for now--

He wrapped his arms around Sideswipe’s shoulders, and tightened his grip with a short groan into his mate’s mouth as he was lowered back down onto the highway, the red mech’s frame shuffling clumsily on top of him, far too eager for any decorum.

It also occurred to him that they had not spark-merged since they’d first bonded.

He’d _longed_ to. But Sideswipe had not been comfortable with reliving that memory, and Prowl did not ask to do so. It hurt to deny himself, and it hurt worse when he eventually realized that Sideswipe had _another,_ stronger bond that he could dive into whenever he was lonely, but Prowl loved him too much to ask him to ease him the same way with a merge.

The _need_ for his mate’s spark now that both of their chestplates were sliding apart and open tugged at him so forcefully that he thought for a moment that his spark would force it’s way out of its chamber before he was ready and launch itself into Sideswipe. The way that Sideswipe was already pinning him with all of his weight affirmed that he felt the same way, and his audials heard the _hiss_ of both of their chambers exposing two balls of light.

Prowl turned off his optics as his focus turned inwards to the core of his essence, and briefly he ‘saw’ a star, a _perfect_ star, one that raced at him through the dark night until it was caught in his gravity and spun to dance around him, with him, _always_ with him. He heard Sideswipe mumbling something, felt hands on a frame that felt so far away, and his own hands were touching someone else, but in his mind, all he saw was that perfect star, and he wanted nothing more than to shout in joy as they spun closer and closer together.

He clung tighter to Sideswipe as memories that were not his own washed through his mind, and he found himself relaxing, lost in the warm glow that was the presence of the mech that he loved with all his spark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for my planned Sidequests chapters! I may return to this if ideas strike me, but for now I'd like to focus my attention on Iacon Prophecy's sequel. I am _still_ without a laptop and can't outline, but I'm confident about where the story is as it sits in my head, so I'm going to try to start cranking it out anyway.
> 
> I have another story in the works that has nothing to do with the Iacon Prophecy universe that may come out first, but this story will _definitely_ be continued.
> 
> See you guys in "The Iacon Legacy!" ;D


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